ESSAYS 
VERSE  AND  LETTERS 

JORL  M.  JOH ANSON  . 


OF  THE 
OF 


( 


ESSAYS 
VERSE  AND  LETTERS 

OF 

JOEL  M.  JOHANSON 


O-^  ^^y^'TA^^ 


ESSAYS 
VERSE  AND  LETTERS 

OF 

JOEL  M.  JOHANSON 


DXFARTMBNT    OF    PHINTINQ 

UmTBBSITY    OF    WASHINGTON 

1020 


J.  M.  J. 

He  should  have  died  hereafter, 
There  would  have  been  a  time  for  such  a  word. 
But  not  a  time  like  this :  a  crowded  hour 
When  men  run  headlong  lest  they  fall  outright ; 
An  hour  when  one  whose  stride  is  firm  and  sure 
Wins  to  the  goal  that  frenzy  only  seeks 
To  drop  far  short,  or  blindly  run  beyond 
And  miss  the  crown.    He  did  not  stand  aside. 
He  heard  the  gun  and  started  with  the  rest 
And  held  the  pace ;  but  in  the  race  he  ran 
Like  one  who  knows  his  power,  who  sees  the  tape. 
Is  sure  where  he  will  breast  it,  why  and  when. 

Was  he  betrayed?    Did  God  reach  from  His  height 

And  slay  him  there,  that  we  might  know  again 

He  is  a  God  of  fear  ?    Was  his  the  pride 

The  godhead  frowns  upon?    And  must  we  know 

Our  journey  is  from  dark,  with  light 

Let  in  a  day  to  show  that  dark  is  night. 

And  death  is  pain  and  not  mere  nothingness? 

He  is  not  dead.    Those  only  die  whose  spirit 

Fails.    But  when  he  seemed  to  fall  he  left 

A  spirit  marching  free.    I  see  him  now 

Before  me.    My  call  he  answers  with  a  smile 

But  with  no  gesture^ — so  I  know  'tis  he. 

He  does  not  wave  me  on.    He  never  waved 

Me  on.    But  where  he  goes  I  know  that  I 

May  follow  sure.    He  knew  the  goal  was  far. 

He  knew.    He  knew  that  what  he  was  must  die 

A  thousand  deaths  in  winning  to  that  life. 

And  dying  win  it  everlastingly. 

J.  B.  H. 


TO  THE  FATHER  AND  MOTHER  OF 

JOEL    M.    JOHANSON 

THIS  BOOK 
IS  RESPF.CTFULLY  DEDICATED 


M713353 


For  permission  to  use  certain  of  the  essays  in  this  collection,  thanks 
are  due  to  the  Editors  of  The  Sewanee  Review,  School  and  Society, 
The  University  of  Washington  Alumnus. 


PREFACE 

The  publication  of  this  book  is  inspired  by  the  desire  of  the  many 
friends  of  Joel  Marcus  Johanson  to  have  a  permanent  record  of  what 
he  was  and  what  he  did.  For  them  it  is  perhaps  especially  intended; 
but  it  is  likewise  offered  to  the  general  reader  who  is  interested  in  any 
significant  humanistic  approach  to  the  problems  of  the  time. 

In  making  the  selections  for  the  volume  from  among  the  varied 
writings  of  Mr.  Johanson  the  editors  have  been  guided  by  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  man  and  his  work  and  have  sought  to  make  their 
choices  as  representative  as  possible  of  the  versatile  personality  which 
that  work  illustrates.  The  undertaking  requires  no  apology,  and  the 
only  regret  that  need  be  expressed  is  that  the  writer's  untimely  death 
cut  short  an  intensive  intellectual  activity  of  which  but  the  first  fruits 
are  here  presented. 

Some  liberties  have  been  taken  in  editing  minor  details  in  certain 
of  the  papers  which  Mr.  Johanson  had  not  prepared  for  publication, 
but  for  the  most  part  the  materials  are  presented  as  they  were  found 
in  manuscript.  There  are  doubtless  many  changes,  omissions  and  ad- 
ditions and  corrections,  which  the  writer  himself  would  have  made  be- 
fore putting  these  materials  into  a  book;  but  the  editors  have  felt  that 
their  privilege  did  not  extend  to  more  than  the  alteration  of  those  obvious 
imperfections  that  are  to  be  found  in  every  uncompleted  manuscript. 

Richard  F.  Scholz 
Harvey  B.  Densmore 
Ralph  D.  Casey 
Joseph  B.  Harrison 


Joel  Marcus  Johanson  was  bom  November  30,  1879,  in  Independ- 
ence, Wisconsin.  He  was  the  son  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Johan  Arnt  Johan- 
son, who  were  bom  in  Norway,  but  came  to  America  in  their  youth. 
Mr.  Johanson  received  his  grade  school  and  high  school  training  at 
Fairhaven  (Bellingham),  Washington.  He  was  graduated  from  the 
University  of  Washington  with  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts  in  1904. 
Having  won  the  first  Rhodes  scholarship  from  the  State  of  Washing- 
ton, he  entered  Exeter  College,  Oxford,  England,  in  the  fall  of  1904. 
While  in  Oxford  Mr.  Johanson  did  reading  toward  a  research  degree, 
and  participated  in  various  collegiate  activities,  especially  in  rowing. 
He  was  bow  oar  in  the  Exeter  boat  for  the  three  years  of  his  residence. 

Upon  his  return  to  Seattle  in  1908,  he  became  instructor  in  German 
in  the  University  of  Washington,  a  position  he  held  until  1910  when  he 
was  appointed  instructor  in  English.  He  became  assistant  professor  of 
English  in  the  same  university  in  1914.  Mr.  Johanson  was  elected  a 
member  of  Washington  Alpha  of  Phi  Beta  Kappa  in  1915.  He  was  a 
charter   member  of  Beta  Omega  chapter  of  Beta  Theta  Pi. 

Mr.  Johanson's  death  on  December  13,  1919,  was  the  result  of 
injuries  received  in  an  automobile  accident. 


CONTENTS 

Statement  of  Faith  13 

Modern   Libsrai,  Education 17 

Through  Wisdom  is  a  House  Buii,iif,u 27 

Economics  and  Literature  33 

Why  I  Sympathize  With  England  63 

Democracy  in  Criticism   81 

The  Turning  Point  107 

A  Modern  Dante  119 

Pelle  THE  Conqueror 1^7 

A  Childhood  Tragedy  137 

Absolute  Ablatives  143 

Poems 149 

Letters  159 

Innocence  Aboard 189 


STATEMENT  OF  FAITH 


STATEMENT  OF  FAITH 

In  the  ten  years  since  I  left  Oxford  it  has  been  proved  to  me  that  I 
owe  most  to  Oxford  for  her  teaching  of  the  humanities  and  especially 
for  her  insistence  that  the  sciences  and  professions  be  included  among 
the  humanities.  Perhaps  because  this  teaching  was  presented  to  me 
under  the  name  of  "culture,"  it  did  not  favorably  impress  me  in  the 
beginning;  but  in  the  end  the  simple  human  reasonableness  and  per- 
suasiveness of  it  won  me  over. 

Although  there  have  been  times  in  the  ten  years  when  it  seemed 
almost  impossible  to  defend  the  humanistic  method  against  our  in- 
tensely practical  world  with  its  scientific  measurements,  its  accuracies, 
utilities,  and  efficiencies,  I  have  in  the  main  kept  faithful.  The  events 
of  the  last  few  tremendous  years  have  convinced  me  beyond  doubt  of 
the  need  in  the  world  for  just  what  Oxford  teaches,  as  she  teaches  it. 
One  needs  no  longer  think  indulgently  of  Oxford  as  the  home  of  lost 
causes,  but  proudly  of  her  as  the  nurse  of  the  saving  truth. 

It  is  not  easy  to  explain  what  Oxford  has  meant  to  me.  But  I 
can  try.  Oxford  taught  me  the  livingness  of  things.  She  taught  me 
that  there  is  a  category  of  life — one  of  the  most  obvious  facts  of  ex- 
perience and  inseparable  from  it — whereby  we  may  view  the  world; 
that  organism  is  more  than  the  mere  mechanism;  and  that  the  impon- 
derables and  immeasurables  must  be  included  in  any  realistic  account 
of  the  world.  She  taught  me  that  things  may  be  simply  and  humanly 
known,  and  yet  for  human  purposes  sufficiently  known,  with  all  the 
limitations  and  hesitations  and  humilities  that  human  knowing  imposes ; 
that  the  university  is  the  place  above  all  where  humility  in  knowing 
must  be  practiced,  and  where  studies  are  but  dignified  common  sense ; 
that  education  must  concern  itself  with  a  man  as  well  as  with  man,  with 
individual  autonomy,  not  with  subordination,  with  the  quickening  and 
diversifying  of  men's  thoughts  rather  than  with  their  regimentation 
and  control;  that  there  must  be  obedience  to  the  authority  within  as 
well  as  to  that  without ;  whereupon  may  be  built  a  morality  of  nations 
as  well  as  of  men,  to  the  utter  confusion  of  all  Realpolitik ;  that  all  ac- 
tivities and  purposes  of  mankind  must  find  human  sanctions  and  be 
submitted  to  human  judgements  and  that  no  individual  is  to  be  exalted 
above  this  judgment  and  none  submerged  beneath  it;  that  the  ad- 
justment which  shall  accomplish  this  is  democracy — intricate,  various 

13 


and  changeable  as  life  itself,  and  like  life,  efficient  only  in  the  endless 
trying. 

I  find  Oxford  coming  to  be  my  most  cherished  memory.  For  ten 
years  I  have  tried  to  apply  Oxonian  ideals  in  my  teaching;  and  hope 
to  continue  in  the  same  way.  The  world  looks  like  a  place  where 
there  will  be  much  work  to  do  for  those  who  have  been  trained  at  Ox- 
ford. Other  ideals  than  hers  have  brought  it  to  the  present  fearful 
testing.  The  new  time  will  demand  a  new  teaching.  And  that,  I  think, 
will  be  found  in  the  humanities,  of  which  the  sciences  may  be  even 
the  larger  part,  so  long  as  they  remain  but  a  part. 


14 


MODERN  LIBERAL  EDUCATION 


15 


MODERN  LIBERAL  EDUCATION 

To  secure  the  degree  of  bachelor  of  arts  the  candidate  must  meet  the  fol- 
lowing requirements : 

He  must  complete  the  number  of  credits  specified  in  each  of  the  following 
subjects : 

a.  Ancient  language   and   literature 8  credits 

b.  Modern    foreign    language 8  credits 

c.  Rhetoric    8  credits 

d.  Mathematics    4  credits 

e.  Physical  science  8  credits 

/.  Biological  science 8  credits 

g.  History    8  credits 

h.  Philosophy   8  credits 

i.  Political    science   8  credits 

/.  Physical   training  8  credits 

He  must  complete  a  total  of  128  credits. 

This  is  the  formula,  taken  from  the  catalogue  of  a  typical  state  univer- 
sity, by  the  application  of  which  its  college  of  liberal  arts  prepares  that 
compound  which  is  known  as  liberal  education.  Such  a  simple  and  pre- 
cise statement  of  the  business  of  preparing  a  college  education  must 
be  quite  encouraging  to  the  entering  high  school  student,  who  probably 
has  looked  forward  with  some  misgiving  to  a  serious  change  in  methods 
of  education  in  the  university.  He  has  known,  of  course,  that  "to  be 
admitted  to  the  freshman  class  students  must  pass  an  examination  based 
upon  a  four-years'  course  amounting  in  the  aggregate  to  fifteen  units 
or  complete  a  course  of  the  same  length  in  an  accredited  school.  Of 
these  fifteen  units  eight  and  one-half  are  prescribed,  the  remaining  eight 
and  one-half  are  wholly  or  partly  elective  from  the  list  of  optional 
studies."  He  has  been  informed,  furthermore,  that  "to  count  as  a  unit 
a  subject  must  be  taught  five  times  a  week,  in  periods  of  not  less  than 
forty-five  minutes,  for  a  school  year  of  not  less  than  thirty-six  weeks." 
Consequently,  since  he  has  been  engaged  in  the  task  of  aggregating 
fifteen  college  entrance  units  for  four  years  of  thirty-six  weeks  each, 
in  recitation  periods,  five  times  a  week,  of  not  less  than  forty-five  min- 
utes each,  it  should  dissipate  his  misgivings  concerning  a  radical  change 
in  methods  to  know  that  he  must  similarly  complete  128  credits  during 
another  period  of  four  years,  of  a  certain  number  of  weeks,  in  reci- 
tation periods  of  not  less  than  a  certain  number  of  minutes  each.  Es- 
sentially the  methods  are  the  same :  in  the  university  he  completes  cred- 
its ;  in  the  high  school  he  aggregated  units. 

17 


Here  we  have  a  very  abstract,  very  exact  conception  of  the  method 
of  liberal  education.  It  is  as  precise  as  the  specifications  for  some  en- 
gineering enterprise — an  engineering  enterprise,  that  is,  for  which  no 
plans  exist.  For,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  there  seems  to  exist  no  clear- 
ly defined  structure  for  which  these  educational  specifications  are  made. 
What  picture  appears  in  the  mind  when  we  think  of  the  liberally  edu- 
cated man  to  be  produced  by  the  above  formula  ? 

In  the  literature  of  the  past  we  frequently  find  concrete  represen- 
tations of  the  man  to  be  realized  through  education.  The  Greeks  direct- 
ed their  education  towards  a  certain  definite  end,  the  training  of  the 
citizen-soldier.  In  his  Courtier,  Castiglione  draws  a  clearly  defined 
ideal  suitable  for  the  society  of  his  time.  Peacham  depicts  another  in 
his  Complect  Gentleman.  And  Newman's  ideal  of  the  English  gen- 
tleman, and  of  the  method  of  education  necessary  for  his  training,  is 
well  known.  Wherever  there  has  existed  a  conception  of  liberal  edu- 
cation corresponding  to  political  and  social  ideals  of  successive  periods 
of  history,  there  has  existed  along  with  this  a  fairly  well-defined  idea  in 
the  contemporary  mind  of  the  product  of  such  education.  As  political 
ideals  have  become  increasingly  democratized  there  has  been  a  descent, 
as  it  were,  from  the  citizen-soldier  to  the  courtier,  to  the  complete  gen- 
tleman, to  the  simple  gentleman,  until  ultimately  we  have  arrived  at  the 
democratic  citizen,  who  exists,  apparently,  merely  in  abstracto  as  a  math- 
emathical  formula.  Whatever  he  may  be,  or  ought  to  be,  we  have  at 
all  events  a  beautifully  simple  and  definite  formula  for  the  preparation 
of  him.  And  the  machinery  for  the  application  of  the  formula  is  as 
well  organized  and  well  articulated  and  efficient  as  the  formula  is  simple 
and  definite.  So  that  it  reminds  one  of  that  great  automobile  factory 
in  which  we  may  see  the  raw  material  enter  one  end  of  the  plant,  un- 
dergo a  variety  of  processes,  and  in  a  short  time  emerge  from  the  other 
end  in  the  form  of  a  completely  assembled  machine.  And  many,  many 
thousands  are  turned  out  every  year. 

The  comparison  tempts  one  to  continue.  "Having  their  origins 
m  the  national  mind,  the  institutions  of  each  epoch,  whatever  be  their 
special  functions,  must  have  a  family  likeness."  The  past  epoch  has 
been  one  of  machinery  in  all  things;  the  national  mind  has  operated 
through  the  most  elaborate  machinery.  Indeed,  in  many  cases  the  na- 
tional mind  has  not  needed  to  operate  at  all ;  for,  as  in  things  political, 
the  machine  has  operated  itself,  with  little  regard  for  the  national  mind. 
It  will  therefore  be  a  simple  matter  to  discover  a  family  likeness  among 
the  institutions  of  this  epoch. 

The  university  or  college  is  a  great  factory,  operated  by  a  typical 
corporation,  with  its  general  manager,  its  departmental  managers,  its 

18 


foremen,  and  its  workmen.  All  great  modern  business  concerns  have 
elaborate  card-index  systems  for  the  information  of  the  concern  re- 
garding the  least  details  of  manufacture.  This  factory's  field  of  in- 
terests is  extremely  wide.  It  is  therefore  divided,  subdivided,  and  sub- 
divided again ;  so  that  there  are  sections,  drawers  and  cards  represent- 
ing schools,  departments  and  subjects,  respectively.  The  ultimate  card 
in  the  index  then  represents  a  unit  of  operation,  that  is,  one  hour  each 
week  for  a  semester  of,  say,  sixteen  weeks.  The  notation  upon  a  card 
might  read  somewhat  as  follows:  "English,  I.-IL,  ...  4  credits,"  or 
"German,  III. -IV.,  ...2  credits,"  which  would  mean  that  in  the  division 
l.-II,  of  the  division  of  English,  of  the  college  of  liberal  arts,  four  hours 
a  week  in  the  class-room  entitle  the  student  at  the  end  of  the  semester 
to  four  credits  in  English;  similarly  for  German,  division  III. -IV.,  two 
hours  a  week,  2  credits.  This  scientific  and  abstract  language  is  sup- 
posed to  represent  what  is  known  more  concretely  as  studying  the  his- 
tory of  English  literature  or  the  storm  and  stress  period  in  German 
literature,  for  instance.  By  means  of  this  division  into  small  units,  it 
may  readily  be  seen,  a  great  flexibility  results ;  so  that  many  ingenious 
combinations  can  be  made,  under  the  formula,  in  aggregating  128  cred- 
its. If  it  is  considered  expedient  to  add  a  new  department  to  the  plant, 
it  is  necessary  merely  to  add  a  new  section  or  a  new  drawer  to  the  file, 
and  to  fill  this  with  a  few  new  cards,  together  with  a  judicious  selection 
of  cards  from  the  already  existing  supply.  Thus  the  essential  quality 
of  liberality  is  ensured  in  the  mixture. 

Let  us  now  observe  the  operation.  Freshmen  are  the  raw  material, 
tested,  standardized,  1 5-Carnegie-units  pure.  As  indicated  above,  there 
is  a  great  possible  variety  of  processes  for  the  raw  material  to  undergo. 
It  becomes  necessary,  when  the  freshmen  appear,  to  refer  to  the  formula 
of  the  catalogue  and  by  its  aid  to  choose  the  processes  for  the  first  eighth 
part  of  the  entire  operation,  that  is,  for  sixteen  credits  upon  the  books. 
These  represent  basic  operations  during  the  first  two  years.  When  the 
formula  has  been  specifically  determined,  the  processes  begin,  and  are 
carried  on  at  the  rate  of  sixteen  hours  a  week  in  the  class  rooms  under 
the  immediate  charge  of  the  workmen.  Exact  account  of  these  hours 
for  each  individual  is  kept.  If  at  the  end  of  the  sixteen  weeks  the  work- 
man in  charge  is  satisfied  upon  examination  of  the  material  that  his 
work  has  taken  well,  he  notifies  the  central  accounting  office  of  this  fact, 
and  the  necessary  notations  are  made  upon  the  factory's  books.  The  op- 
erations are  then  continued  according  to  the  specific  formulae  chosen 
at  the  beginning  of  each  subsequent  semester.  The  card  representing 
some  particular  piece  of  work  at  the  end  of  the  first  semester  might 
read,  for  instance:  English,  I.-II., — 4  credits;  German,  III.-IV., 


19 


credits;  history,  V.-VI., — 4  credits;  chemistry,  I.-II., — 4  credits;  phy- 
sical training,  I.-II., — 2  credits;  aggregating  18  credits.  This  process 
of  aggregation  continues  for  four  years,  carefully  accompanied  by  the 
accounts  upon  the  books.  Thus  one  may  discover  by  reference  to  the 
books  at  any  point  in  the  process  just  how  near  it  is  to  completion.  Upon 
request  a  certificate  of  this  may  be  had  from  the  accountant.  This  cer- 
tificate has  a  definite  exchange  value,  somewhat  like  a  time-check;  it 
is  accepted  at  par  if  it  comes  from  a  standard  institution;  but  if  it  be 
from  a  smaller  institution  it  is  usually  discounted.  The  credit-hour 
basis  determines  the  rate  of  exchange.  In  the  course  of  time  the  neces- 
sary 128  units  are  credited  to  a  job  on  the  books.  It  is  then  finished 
and  ready  to  send  out,  adorned  with  a  quiet,  old-fashioned  label :  "The 
contents  of  this  package  have  been  chosen,  tested  and  packed  with  ex- 
treme care,  according  to  the  formula  of  the  standard  manufacturers. 
Quality  and  weight  guaranteed." 

Pure-food  labels,  it  is  said,  have  often  covered  a  multitude  of  sins. 
"The  institutions  of  each  epoch,  whatever  be  their  special  functions, 
must  have  a  family  likeness." 

In  an  institution  where  so  much  stress  is  placed  upon  the  mechanics 
of  operation  one  would  expect,  and  would  not  be  disappointed  in  ex- 
pecting, an  almost  automatic  perfection.  It  is  the  aim  of  all  to  make  the 
machinery  operate  with  the  least  need  of  attention;  and  as  regularly 
and  efficiently  as  possible.  One  may  hear  the  term  automatic  applied 
oftentimes  to  the  method  whereby  certain  results  are  obtained.  A  stu- 
dent may  be  automatically  conditioned  or  dropped  from  the  institution. 
He  may  automatically  graduate.  To  illustrate  this  a  case  in  point  comes 
to  mind.  A  senior  found  on  examining  the  books  of  the  college  at  the 
end  of  the  year,  that  he  did  not  have  enough  credits  to  graduate.  He 
therefore  returned  to  summer  school  to  "earn"  a  few  more  credits.  But 
when  he  returned  to  summer  school  he  was  notified  by  the  office  that  he 
had  more  than  enough  to  graduate;  extra  credits  had  been  discovered; 
and  his  education  was  finished.  To  discover  so  suddenly  that  one  is 
educated  at  last  must  be  a  wonderful  mental  experience.  The  burst  of 
illumination  which  flooded  his  mind  at  that  instant  must  have  reminded 
him  of  the  experience  of  Cortez  and  his  men  when  they  gazed  upon  the 
Pacific's  boundless  expanse,  "silent,  on  a  peak  in  Darien." 

In  the  formula  for  liberal  education  and  in  its  application  there  is 
nothing  vague,  indefinite,  or  haphazard — unless  that  be  called  haphaz- 
ard which  has  no  concretely  representable  end.  The  question  is  insist- 
ent: What  kind  of  man  is  this  wonderfully  organized  machinery  to 
produce?  One  might  in  reason  expect  to  find  current  some  clear  rep- 
resentation of  that  man  whom  to  produce  it  is  merelj'  necessary  to  put 


20 


youth  in  the  hopper,  turn  the  crank,  and  eject  him  prepared.  And  yet 
all  there  is  in  answer  to  the  question  is  a  formula,  a  sort  of  equation: 
4a+4i+4c4-4rf+etc.=128,  or  X.  The  quantity  is  exact  enough;  but 
what  is  the  unknown  quality?  An  examination  of  the  mechanism  in 
some  of  the  details  of  its  operation  may  throw  some  light  on  this  im- 
portant question. 

One  of  the  ingredients  of  the  formula  is  known  as  "physical  train- 
ing ...  8  credits."  This  is  the  abstraction  for  that  which  in  a  demo- 
cratic society  is  the  equivalent  of  military  training,  proficiency  in  knight- 
ly exercises,  expertness  in  the  playing  of  games,  in  societies  variously 
otherwise  constituted.  Perhaps  it  represents  the  ideal  of  healthy  clear- 
headed citizenship.  That  is  to  be  taken  on  faith.  The  operation  of  the 
system  in  this  respect  will  give  an  impression  of  what  occurs  in  respect 
of  other  portions  of  the  formula.  And  since  this  is  concerned  with  the 
training  of  the  body,  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  it  will  be  more 
amenable  to  the  demands  of  a  mechanical  system  than  the  others,  which 
are  concerned  with  the  training  of  the  mind. 

The  instinct  for  play,  recreation,  or  exercise  is  a  common  phenom- 
enon in  the  normal  youth  of  college  age.  If  it  were  given  opportunity 
and  encouragement  for  expression  in  a  natural  manner,  there  can  be 
no  question  but  it  would  manifest  itself  in  many  forms  of  physical 
activity.  "Physical  training  ...  8  credits"  is  the  opportunity  and  en- 
couragement for  the  expression  of  this  instinct.  This  means  the  pres- 
ence of  the  student,  for  each  of  the  eight  credits  required  for  gradua- 
tion, one  hour  each  week  in  the  classroom  for  physical  training,  that  is, 
the  gymnasium.  It  means  nothing  else.  The  playing  instinct,  the  in- 
terest in  physical  recreation,  by  adaptation  to  this  formula  in  mechani- 
cal class  drill  is  transformed  into  a  listless,  perfunctory  habit  of  earning 
credits.  The  student  trains  his  body  by  earning  credits.  Of  course 
there  are  games  for  college  men,  too;  and  they  are  exceedingly  well- 
organized.  Those  fortunate  men  who  have  been  endowed  by  nature  with 
a  splendid  physique  may  become  members  of  Coach  Drivem's  "high- 
powered  football  machine,"  or  of  some  other  athletic  machine.  It  may 
be  that  in  these  games  they  get  a  great  deal  of  normal  physical  recrea- 
tion, in  which  case  it  is  quite  unfortunate  that  reporters  will  continue 
to  speak  of  their  teams  as  machines.  But  that  is  probably  merely  a  ten- 
dency of  the  national  mind.  If  the  playing  instinct  of  the  normal  col- 
lege man — the  one  who  does  not  get  a  chance  to  play  on  any  team,  but 
plays  in  a  gymnasium  class — is  not  sufficiently  chastened  and  subdued 
by  the  formal  nature  of  his  training,  a  means  is  provided  whereby  the 
persisting  remainder  may  be  efifectually  purged  away.  He  may  repair 
to  the  occasional  week-end  game,  there  to  give  his  inhibited  playing  in- 

21 


stinct  sympathetic  exercise  up  to  an  intense,  vociferous  pitch  of  emotion; 
and  thus  he  effects  a  purgation  of  it.  He  is  for  the  time  being  like  the 
Athenian  at  the  tragic  spectacle,  except  that  the  Athenian  contrived  to 
effect  the  purgation  of  his  emotions  without  the  assistance  of  a  yell- 
leader.  Athletic  games  thus  cooperate  with  the  class-room  drill  in  ap- 
plying the  formula  for  the  physical  element  in  liberal  education. 

When  this  is  what  occurs  in  the  formalization  of  the  method  of 
physical  training,  it  is  a  simple  matter  to  infer  by  analogy  what  occurs 
in  the  parallel  method  of  mental  training,  which,  in  the  nature  of  things, 
is  even  less  susceptible  of  such  formalization.  Since  the  student  must 
earn  sixteen  credits  during  the  semester,  he  must  be  in  the  class-room 
sixteen  hours  each  week.  A  credit  on  the  books  represents  a  class- 
room hour  a  week.  That  is  the  fundamental  equation  upon  which 
the  entire  structure  of  liberal  education  rests.  There  is  no  other  method 
of  estimating  the  student's  study.  The  accounting  system  must  be  kept 
intact ;  all  else  must  be  accommodated  to  it ;  or  ignored.  Of  the  mani- 
fold subtle  and  intangible  influences  outside  of  the  class-room,  of  ad- 
mittedly the  highest  value  for  purposes  of  education,  no  account  can  be 
kept.  The  various  ways  by  which  the  instructor,  as  an  individual,  may 
guide,  encourage,  influence,  or  inspire  the  student,  as  individual,  are 
extremely  difficult  to  estimate  quantitatively.  They  elude  the  classroom- 
credit  system  of  measurement,  and  no  attempt  is  made  to  estimate  them 
otherwise.  It  is  very  likely  that  what  is  thus  left  out  of  account  will 
exert  very  little  influence. 

So  the  student  goes  a  dull  round  of  sixteen  recitations  a  week  to 
earn  his  sixteen  credits  a  semester.  Whatever  intellectual  eagerness  he 
may  have  brought  with  him  is  hard  put  to  it  to  survive  the  inhibitory  in- 
fluence of  this  punctual  timekeeping;  for  after  the  demands  upon  his 
time  of  the  regular  schedule  in  class  and  laboratory,  and  of  the  daily 
fragmentary  preparation  for  them  have  been  satisfied,  there  are  the  num- 
erous student  "activities,"  properly  so-called,  the  demands  of  which,  en- 
forced by  student  opinion,  are  equally  exigent.  By  the  time  the  intel- 
lectual interests  have  run  this  formidable  gauntlet  of  requirements  and 
distractions  they  have  become  enervated  and  reduced;  and  the  torpid 
residue  is  volatilized  in  the  week-end  sentimentalities ;  parties  and  danc- 
es, the  new  vaudeville  bill,  the  latest  girl  from  Paris,  or  the  moving  pic- 
tures ;  and  thus  it  vanishes.  In  the  end  the  intellectual  interests  of  the 
student  do  not  differ  much  from  those  of  the  "tired  business  man."  At 
the  week-end  they  both  seek  "amusement" — some  intellectual  anaesthet- 
ic. The  mind  which  is  made  torpid  by  the  tedium  of  dull  routine  does 
not  seek  intellectual  pleasures. 

After  all,  it  is  not  known  what  end  is  desired  by  the  application  of 

22 


the  educational  formula.  So  long  as  the  formula  is  sufficient  unto  it- 
self, and  there  is  no  concern  about  its  results,  no  definite  ideal  to  try  to 
attain,  perhaps  the  attendance  upon  classes  and  the  earning  thereby  of 
credits  to  be  recorded  in  the  college  ledgers  is  considered  an  adequate 
training  for  the  man  who  is  to  enter  a  career  of  some  kind  of  earning. 
Credits  very  much  resemble  time-checks.  But  one  wonders  why  the 
misleading  designation  is  still  retained.  Why  is  this  called  liberal  educa- 
tion? 

An  English  educator.  Professor  Raleigh,  recently  warned  his  hear- 
ers that  "there  is  a  kind  of  lethargy  which  falls  upon  universities  in  the 
days  of  their  prosperity,  when  they  have  thousands  of  students  and  a 
full  measure  of  public  recognition  and  material  success.  Then  they 
sometimes  forget  their  earlier  gospel,  they  lose  their  first  sprightly  im- 
pulse, and  settle  down  to  a  program,  a  time-table,  an  industry,  a  sys- 
tem." This  is  a  grave  danger  because  "thought,  the  cardinal  duty  of  a 
university,  can  not  be  performed  to  order.  Machinery  and  discipline, 
a  constitution,  and  regulations — these  things  are  necessary  for  any  great 
institution;  but  they  are  the  body  of  the  institution;  not  its  animating 
soul.  If  discipline  be  exalted  at  the  expense  of  everything  else,  you  get 
a  spirit  creditable  perhaps  to  a  brigade,  but  disastrous  to  the  activities 
of  the  mind." 

It  seems  strange  to  hear  of  an  English  educator  warning  English 
universities  against  the  dangers  of  systematization.  Several  genera- 
tions of  American  students  who  have  some  knowledge,  through  ex- 
perience, of  the  English  system  as  it  obtains  at  Oxford,  have  puzzled 
their  brains  in  vain  to  find  in  that  university's  method  of  training  a 
system  in  the  thoroughgoing  American  sense.  The  secret  of  it  has 
seemed  to  be  that  in  that  sense  Oxford  has  no  system  at  all.  The  Ox- 
onian method  is  simply  that  of  providing  the  student  with  sufficient 
latitude  in  the  matter  of  time  and  studies,  so  that,  under  the  direction 
of  the  tutors,  he  may  develop  his  own  intellectual  powers  to  their  fullest 
capacity.  For  this  self -development  he  is  given  credit — not  credits — in 
the  final  estimation  of  his  training.  The  English  university  understands 
what  we  call  system  not  at  all,  or  too  well. 

Professor  Raleigh  asserts  quite  dogmatically  that  the  cardinal  duty 
of  a  university  is  thought.  The  differing  conceptions  of  system  may  be 
based  upon  a  difference  in  the  interpretation  of  thought. 

Thought,  under  the  formula  for  liberal  education,  must  be  con- 
sidered as  an  inorganic  mass  of  fact,  a  mere  agglomeration  of  inert 
matter.  Otherwise  it  surely  would  not  be  considered  susceptible  of  such 
minute  dissection.  Dissection  is  not  usually  practised  upon  anything 
living;  and  if  it  were,  there  would  be  little  hope  of  restoring  life  to  the 

23 


fragments  by  merely  assembling  them.  Under  the  formula  the  living 
body  of  thought  is  divided  and  subdivided.  The  student  is  made  aware 
of  the  content  of  liberal  education  under  the  form  of  this  subdivision. 
He  is  expected  to  gather  these  unrelated  fragments  in  such  a  way  as 
to  make  them  an  organic  unity,  to  endow  them  with  life.  Goethe's 
precious  Wagner  constructed  his  Homunculus  indeed  by  some  chemical 
hocus-pocus,  and  we  live  in  high  hope  that  even  more  will  be  accom- 
plished nowadays.  But  for  all  practical  purposes  the  difficulty  seems  to 
be  that  when  a  living  thing  is  dissected,  something  extremely  valuable 
escapes  in  the  act,  something  which  it  is  impossible  to  restore  again  by 
any  synthetic  process.  And  yet  one  hears  teachers  of  science  complain 
that  the  analytic  method  of  studying  literature  did  not  build  up  in  them 
a  living  interest  in  that  subject.  They  assume  evidently,  quite  naively, 
that  literature  is  to  be  studied  by  the  scientific  method  which  they  ap- 
ply to  the  study  of  inorganic  compounds ;  that  is,  that  it  is  not  a  living 
thing.  Literature  is  interesting  because  it  is  living,  because  it  is  a  spirit- 
ual correlative  of  life  in  man.  If  one  can  see  no  beauty  in  a  poem  it 
would  be  fatuous  to  try  to  find  it  by  analysis.  And  if  one  can  see  beauty 
in  a  poem,  he  will  probably  not  analyze  it.  Thought,  the  spiritual  cor- 
relative of  man's  life,  must  be  approached  as  whole  and  living  if  it  is 
to  be  an  organic,  harmonious  whole  in  the  end.  Of  system  there  is 
needed  just  enough  to  bring  student  and  subject  most  advantageously 
together,  and  no  more. 

Journalists  tell  us  that  The  Old  Order  Changeth,  that  our  institu- 
tions are  in  a  transitional  stage.  The  valiant  stand  at  Armageddon  has 
broken  down  that  former  conception  of  the  political  machine  as  existing 
for  itself  alone.  The  political  organization  seems  to  be  regarded  more 
and  more  as  the  body  to  contain  some  animating  soul,  some  informing 
life  principle.  We  should  expect  the  hitherto  self-sufficient  system  of 
liberal  education  to  reveal  a  family  likeness  to  its  sister  institution  in 
transition.  We  should  expect  to  catch  the  gleam  of  an  animating  soul 
in  its  lineaments.  But  universities  are  notoriously  the  homes  of  lost 
causes. 

The  abiding  faith  of  the  mechanists  then  must  give  us  hope  that 
living  thought  may  eventually  be  synthetically  compounded.  They  as- 
sure us  that  it  is  their  aim  "to  form  new  combinations  from  the  ele- 
ments of  living  nature  just  as  the  physicist  and  the  chemist  form  new 
combinations  from  nonliving  nature."  When  they  shall  have  attained 
their  aim,  we  may  borrow  from  their  method,  add  to  our  existing  for- 
mula "Life-principle eight  credits,"  and  thus  form  an  organic 

unity  out  of  the  heterogeneous  128  elements. 


24 


THROUGH  WISDOM  IS  A  HOUSE  BUILDED? 


25 


THROUGH  WISDOM  IS  A  HOUSE  BUILDED? 

There  was  once  a  man  who  wanted  to  build  him  a  house.  He  did  not 
know  what  kind  of  a  house  he  wanted.  So  he  went  up  to  the  place 
where  men  had  houses  built,  and  said :  "I  want  me  a  house  built."  And 
they  said,  those  whom  he  asked :  "What  kind  of  a  house  shall  we  build 
you?"  And  he  answered:  "I  do  not  know;  I  confide  in  your  wisdom." 
Whereat  the  master-builders  were  pleased  and  forthwith  began  to  show 
forth  their  wisdom.  They  drew  out  books,  and  looked  into  them,  and 
then  said :  "Houses  are  of  several  kinds :  Ornate,  in  modem  and  an- 
cient style ;  severely  plain,  and  useful  only ;  or  dignified  and  impressive, 
yet  simple  withal.  And  under  each  main  kind  there  are  a  multitude  of 
others.  Which  kind  shall  you  build  ?"  To  which  he  answered :  "I  do 
not  know ;  I  leave  that  to  your  wisdom."  And  they  were  pleased  again, 
and  said:  "That  is  as  things  should  be.  Take  no  thought  of  your 
house;  but  do  you  build  yourself  a  foundation,  broad  and  strong  and 
general."  At  which  he  wondered  again,  and  asked :  "Wherefore  build 
a  foundation  for  I  know  not  what?"  And  they:  "It  is  written  in  the 
book  that  a  foundation,  broad  and  strong  and  general,  there  must  be 
first  of  all.  It  is  not  meet  that  you,  or  even  we,  question  the  book.  Con- 
fide in  the  wisdom  of  this  book  as  we  do ;  and  build  you  a  foundation." 

Accordingly  he  began  to  build  a  foundation.  Then  there  was  a 
digging  of  pits,  and  driving  of  piles,  and  pouring  of  concrete,  setting  of 
pillars  of  timber  and  cement,  placing  of  beams  of  iron  and  steel,  and  lay- 
ing of  walls  of  brick  and  stone;  and  the  work  progressed  apace.  But 
now  and  then  the  man  murmured  against  lifting  and  placing  the  heavy 
beams ;  for  he  knew  not  where  they  should  be  placed ;  and  he  grumbled 
at  the  mixing  of  the  concrete,  for  it  was  main  heavy  work.  And  now 
and  again  he  would  fall  to  wondering  about  the  plans  of  his  house.  But 
when  he  asked  about  these  things  he  was  told :  "Why  vex  yourself  be- 
fore the  time?  Build — build  the  foundation  good  and  strong  and  gen- 
eral. Plan  later.  Each  thing  in  its  own  good  time."  So  he  builded, 
better  than  he  knew,  he  hoped. 

Thus  two  years  passed.  The  foundation  was  ready  for  his  house. 
For,  according  to  the  book  of  the  master-builders,  where  such  things 
are  writ,  two  years,  and  many  things  besides,  will  build  a  foundation — 
but  mainly  two  years.  Further,  according  to  the  book,  he  must  now 
plan  his  house,  and  come  to  the  master-builders  with  his  plans.  So  he 
bethought  him  to  look  over  his  foundation,  that  he  might  thereby  be 

27 


aided  to  conceive  his  plan.  But  when  he  had  looked  into  his  foundation 
he  found  that  the  concrete  was  already  breaking  up;  for  it  had  been 
mixed  with  the  carelessness  of  utter  weariness ;  and  he  found  the  beams 
not  truly  and  rightly  placed;  for  they  had  been  lifted  with  pain, 
placed  in  ignorance ;  and  the  columns  leaned  this  way  and  that  drunk- 
enly — it  was  all  askew,  and  awry,  and  a  vexation  to  the  spirit  to 
look  upon.  Such  seemed  to  him  the  foundation,  broad  and  strong 
and  general,  that  contained  the  principles  of  all  foundations,  that  might 
serve  for  skyscraper  or  temple,  for  church  or  theater,  bungalow  or 
cabin.  But  it  would  serve  for  nothing  that  he  knew.  He  examined 
his  structure  again  and  again  to  find  some  place  where  he  might  build, 
and  some  clue  to  what  he  might  build.  It  was  near  the  time  to  come 
forth  with  his  plan  to  the  master-builders.  At  length  he  found  by 
merest  chance  a  few  random  wooden  posts  in  a  corner  of  the  founda- 
tion, and  upon  these  he  determined  to  place  his  house,  such  as  could  be 
placed  there;  for  he  must  have  some  shelter  built  in  two  years  more. 
Two  years  he  worked  upon  the  modest  cabin  shelter  on  a  corner  of  the 
broad  foundation,  bringing  a  few  boards  from  one  place,  a  few  bricks 
from  another,  sand  and  gravel  from  a  third,  building  little  by  little. 
.\nd  while  he  thus  labored  it  was  a  melancholy  pleasure  to  him  to  view 
from  all  sides  the  foundation  that  he  had  builded,  and  to  meditate  up- 
on the  wisdom  of  building  such,  broad  and  strong  and  general. 

In  two  years  more  then  he  had  builded  him  a  house — a  sufficient 
shelter  against  the  weather,  and  had  begun  to  live  therein,  making 
himself  as  comfortable  as  might  be.  For,  according  to  the  book,  when 
the  foundation  has  been  builded  for  two  years  and  the  house  for  two 
years  more,  it  is  then  time  to  occupy  it  and  make  oneself  at  home  for 
the  days  to  come.  And  it  happened  that  he  often  and  again  took  a  mel- 
ancholy pleasure  in  looking  out  from  the  window  of  his  modest  shelter 
upon  the  broad  waste  of  foundation,  and  to  observe  how  the  indis- 
criminate mass  of  materials  slowly  gave  before  the  attacks  of  time  and 
weather:  the  concrete  crumbled,  the  steel  rusted,  stone  walls  sagged, 
and  timber  rotted ;  and  all  of  it  availed  him  naught— but  for  reflection 
upon  the  things  that  are. 

It  chanced  in  later  time  that  he  met  the  master-builders  of  his  house ; 
and  he  asked  them  again:  "Wherefore  build  a  foundation  for  I  know 
not  what?"  Hereupon  they  looked  out  upon  the  crumbling  structure, 
and  upon  the  modest  cabin  built  at  random  upon  its  wooden  posts ;  and 
they  shook  their  heads  and  mumbled,  "the  ways  of  the  Inscrutable," 
and  "the  slings  and  arrows  of  misfortune,"  and  "man  proposes,  but 
God  disposes,"  and  sundry  similar  consolations;  then  spoke:  "It  is 
wise  that  a  man  learn  to  do  the  day's  work  and  not  ask  why.    For  thus 

2S 


he  experiences  before  the  day  the  bitter  lesson  of  life,  and  is  prepared 
against  the  evil  time  when  he  knows  that  he  must  do  what  he  fain 
would  not  do.  So  plan  not  your  life  overmuch,  and  kick  not  against 
the  thing  that  is,  for  that  is  right.  You  have  builded  your  foundation 
for  reasons  to  you  inscrutable.  Thus  you  have  prepared  yourself  to 
meet  the  ways  of  the  Inscrutable  in  life."  Saying  which,  they  passed 
on  to  speak  words  of  wisdom  unto  other  builders  of  houses. 

Now  the  man  pondered  these  things  in  the  deeps  of  his  heart ;  and 
looked  out  upon  the  crumbling  foundation  and  pondered  them  again. 
Then  there  appeared  before  the  eye  of  his  mind  the  plan  of  the  house 
that  he  would  build,  as  it  first  appeared  to  his  enraptured  vision  in  the 
last  year  of  his  housebuilding,  when  it  was  too  late  to  begin  to  build 
anew.  And  there  grew  in  him  the  resolve  to  build  him  this  house,  ac- 
cording to  his  vision,  and  according  to  plan,  from  the  foundation  up- 
ward, even  unto  the  latest  day  of  his  life.  It  would  be  a  fair  house, 
with  spacious  halls  and  sounding  galleries,  situated  upon  an  high  emi- 
nence, and  overlooking  a  far  and  wide  prospect  over  the  goings  and 
comings  of  men.  Such  was  the  vision  of  his  house  as  it  had  come  to 
him  in  the  last  year  of  his  housebuilding  under  the  master-builders. 
And  when  it  had  come  he  had  looked  out  upon  the  foundation,  broad 
and  strong  and  general,  and  had  wondered  why  it  had  all  been  neces- 
sary— wondered  why  his  master-builders  had  not  shown  unto  him  plans 
of  all  those  structures  of  beauty  of  which  they  had  spoken — shown 
them  to  him,  and  counselled  with  him,  and  guided  him  to  choose.  Then 
perhaps  the  house  of  his  vision  in  the  last  year  of  his  housebuilding 
had  come  to  him  in  the  first  year  when  he  was  building  his  foundation 
in  pain  and  toil  and  utter  weariness,  that  foundation  broad  and  strong 
and  general,  now  lying  out  there  in  the  weather  and  crumbling  away, 
availing  him  naught — but  to  reflect  upon  the  things  that  are.  If  he  had 
had  that  plan  then  after  the  first  year,  how  much  might  have  been  saved 
out  of  the  ruck  and  ruin  lying  out  there  in  the  weather.  And  if  he  had 
had  his  plans  how  much  better  had  his  concrete  been  mixed,  how  much 
more  true  and  right  had  the  beams  been  placed,  with  what  infinite  care 
and  precision  had  all  the  necessary  things  been  done  according  to  the 
plan  for  his  house. 

But  what  of  the  words  of  the  master-builders,  those  mysterious 
words  about  the  ways  of  the  Inscrutable,  and  about  learning  the  les- 
sons of  bitterness? 

Nay,  he  knew  in  his  heart  that  the  harsh  tasks,  the  heavings  and 
straining,  and  daily  heartrending  toil  would  be  done  with  a  stern  joy  if 
but  the  builder  might  see  the  plans  of  his  house  growing  real  under  his 
hands,  a  little  each  day.    Is  it  not,  then,  the  best  school  for  life  to  learn 


29 


why  the  daily,  irksome  task  is  necessary  and,  knowing  why,  to  do  it 
with  earnestness?  Out  in  life,  there  he  knew  why  the  irksome  task 
must  be  done,  and  did  it  therefore  gladly.  For  out  of  such  daily  tasks, 
done  gladly,  is  the  house  of  life  builded  fair. 

Again  he  looked  out  upon  the  foundation,  crumbling  under  the 
weather — and  wondered  at  the  wisdom  of  the  wise  that  passeth  all  un- 
derstanding. 


30 


ECONOMICS  AND  LITERATURE 


*i 


ECONOMICS  AND  LITERATURE 

The  most  noteworthy  tendency  in  the  study  of  literature  since  the 
turning  of  the  century  is  the  emphasis  which  is  being  placed  upon  the 
relationship  between  economic  and  literary  studies.  Fifteen  or  twenty 
years  ago  literary  study  was  normally  aesthetic  or  technical,  and  literary 
history  in  America,  a  loosely  connected  series  of  critical  evaluations 
upon  a  vaguely  sketched  background  of  history.  Economics  was  then 
as  far  removed  from  literature  as  chemistry.  But  now  even  chemis- 
try, not  to  speak  of  economics,  may  furnish  analogies  and  even  interpre- 
tations; and  history  has  become  the  very  body  and  blood  of  literature 
with  aesthetic  and  critical  evaluations  hardly  so  much  as  the  limbs  and 
outward  flourishes.  It  has  become  almost  as  heretical  now  to  study 
an  author's  work  critically,  considered  as  art,  as  it  was  a  few  years 
ago  to  suggest  that  there  might  be  an  interesting  relationship  between 
Victorian  literature  and  its  economic  background. 

A  theory  of  literature  that  has  been  able  to  command  such  unan- 
imous interest  in  a  comparatively  brief  time  merits  some  close  consid- 
eration. For  there  are  teachers  of  literature  who  begin  to  wonder, 
when  they  behold  the  triumph  of  the  new  study,  just  what  place  is  be- 
ing left  them  for  the  study  of  what  they  still  believe  is  art  in  liter- 
ature. And  there  are  many  students  who  wonder  what  difference 
there  is  between  literary  history  and  economic  or  political  history ;  and 
where  they  may  study  literature  as  such.  I  shall  attempt  in  this  paper 
to  justify  the  name  literature  for  something  which  is  neither  economics 
nor  sociology  nor  history,  but  which  is  itself.  A  short  account  of  the 
development  of  the  theory  of  economic  determinism  or  interpreta- 
tion will  first  be  necessary. 

I  believe  it  is  generally  admitted  that  among  the  contributions  of 
Karl  Marx  to  economic,  social  and  historical  thought  none  has  been 
more  stimulating  to  research,  or  more  fruitful  in  its  results,  than  the 
theory  of  economic  determinism.  According  to  this  theory  the  hist- 
ory of  society  depends  on  its  methods  of  production  and  exchange; 
production  and  transportation  determine  exchange,  distribution  of 
.society  into  classes,  relations  of  classes,  the  existence  of  the  state, 
the  character  of  its  laws,  and  all  that  the  state  means  for  man- 
k.nd.  There  are  still  remaining  some  economic  and  political  theorists 
who  believe  with  Marx  that  everything  can  be  explained  economically, 
that  is,  by  historical  materialism.  But  the  historians  who  refuse  to  ac- 
33  — 2 


cept  this  extreme  statement  of  the  law  have  revised  and  modified  it,  so 
that  in  its  modified  form  it  is  accepted  by  the  majority  of  economists. 
Historians  of  the  modern  scientific  school  are  frank  to  admit  their 
indebtedness  to  the  economist  for  opening  up  this  new  and  fruitful 
field  of  research  by  means  of  which  the  simple  and  homely  and  hitherto 
obscure  facts  of  life  have  become  essential  to  a  more  satisfactory  un- 
derstanding of  the  past. 

Professor  Seligman  may  speak  for  the  moderate  position  in  his 
defense  of  the  economic  theory  against  five  commonly  suggested  ob- 
jections. His  statement  of  the  theory  itself  is  as  follows:  "To  eco- 
nomic causes  must  be  traced  in  the  last  instance  those  transforma- 
tions in  the  structure  of  society  which  themselves  condition  the  rela- 
tions of  social  classes,  and  the  various  manifestations  of  social  life." 
He  explains  the  objections  to  this  theory  in  five  statements:  first,  it 
is  fatalistic;  second,  it  rests  upon  the  assumption  of  historical  laws, 
the  existence  of  which  are  open  to  question;  third,  it  is  socialistic; 
fourth,  it  neglects  ethical  and  spiritual  forces ;  and  fifth,  it  leads  to  ab- 
surd exaggeration.  He  answers  the  objection  that  it  is  fatalistic  by  the 
following  course  of  argument:  Since  man  has  will  power  and  may  act 
or  refrain  from  acting,  he  reveals  himself  in  a  sense  as  a  free  agent. 
But  certain  causes  operative  in  the  organism  are  responsible  for  deci- 
sions. If  the  environment,  past  and  present,  were  known,  we  should 
be  in  a  position  to  foretell  with  some  degree  of  precision  the  actions 
of  human  beings.  Among  the  myriad  decisions  that  compose  a  given 
society  there  can  be  discovered  a  certain  general  tendency  or  uniform- 
ity of  action  from  which  there  is  but  a  slight  deviation,  and  this  is  rep- 
resented by  the  choices  of  the  majority;  that  is,  by  the  social  choices. 
Social  law  rests  upon  the  assumption  that  men  choose  in  harmony 
with  their  welfare,  and  that  the  idea  of  society  implies  a  majority  who 
will  entertain  common  ideas  of  this  welfare.  If  the  conditions  change, 
the  common  ideas  will  change.  But  since  the  conditions  so  far  as  they 
are  social  in  character  are  created  by  men  and  may  be  altered  by  men, 
ultimately  there  is  nothing  fatalistic  about  progress. 

As  to  the  theory  resting  upon  unproven  historical  laws,  he  answers 
that  law  is  an  explanation  of  the  actual  relations  between  facts.  What 
is  true  of  the  sciences  is  equally  true  of  the  social  sciences,  except  that 
the  social  sciences  are  immeasurably  more  complex  because  of  the 
greater  difficulty  in  isolating  the  phenomena  to  be  investigated  and  in 
repeating  the  experiments.  If  each  phase  of  social  activity  constitutes 
the  material  for  a  separate  science  with  its  array  of  scientific  laws,  the 
whole  of  social  activity,  which  in  its  ceaseless  transformations  forms 
the  warp  and  woof  of  history,  must  be  equally  subject  to  law.     To 

34 


deny  the  existence  of  historical  laws  is  virtually  to  maintain  that  there 
is  to  be  found  in  human  life  no  such  theory  as  cause  and  effect. 

Concerning  the  objection  that  it  is  socialistic  he  suggests  that  so- 
cialism is  purposive,  the  economic  theory  descriptive— the  one  is  a 
speculative  ideal,  the  other,  a  canon  of  interpretation — and  that  it 
is  possible  to  be  the  staunchest  individualist  and  at  the  same  time  an 
ardent  advocate  of  the  doctrine  of  economic  interpretation. 

With  those  who  maintain  that  it  neglects  ethical  and  spiritual 
forces  he  argues  that,  since  the  conception  of  morality  is  a  social  pro- 
duct, and  since  the  economic  factors  are  often  those  of  chief  signif- 
icance in  all  the  complex  of  social  conditions,  therefore  the  influence 
of  pure  ethical  or  religious  idealism  can  make  itself  felt  only  within 
the  limitations  of  existing  social  conditions.  Whatever  the  changes, 
there  always  exists  a  border  line  beyond  which  moral  and  spiritual 
ideals  point  toward  progress,  but  the  desired  changes  will  occur  only 
when  the  economic  conditions  are  ripe  for  them.  When  the  economic 
conditions  of  society  become  ideal,  the  individual  will  have  a  free  field 
for  moral  development.  Then  the  economic  factor,  since  it  will  have 
become  a  constant,  may  be  neglected.  Thus  the  economic  conception 
of  history,  properly  interpreted,  does  not  neglect  the  spiritual  forces  in 
history;  it  seeks  only  to  point  out  the  terms  on  which  the  spiritual  life 
has  hitherto  been  able  to  find  its  fullest  fruition. 

These  answers  of  Professor  Seligman,  make  such  a  moderate 
claim  for  the  theory  that  it  seems  almost  unnecessary  to  counter  the 
charge  that  it  leads  to  absurd  exaggeration.  Correctly  understood, 
he  says,  it  does  not  claim  that  every  phenomenon  of  human  life  in 
general  or  of  mental  life  in  particular  is  to  be  explained  on  economic 
grounds ;  for  economics  deals  with  one  kind  of  social  relation  only,  yet 
there  are  as  many  kinds  of  social  relations  as  there  are  classes  of  social 
wants. 

In  this  defense  by  Professor  Seligman  of  the  theory  of  economic 
interpretation  it  is  seen  that  historical  materialism  as  an  universal  ex- 
planation of  all  human  life  is  definitely  rejected.  The  Marxian  theory 
in  its  extreme  form  did  not  lead,  so  far  as  I  know,  to  a  study  of  its 
control  over  literature  or  art  or  other  manifestations  of  spiritual  forces ; 
for  the  reason,  I  suppose,  that  it  was  too  materialistic  a  conception  to 
attract  the  interest  of  those  qualified  to  have  made  such  a  contribution. 
But  the  more  moderate  theory  recently  advanced,  under  which  these 
forces  are  left  a  certain  validity  and  sphere  of  influence,  has  led  to  a 
number  of  theories  of  the  relationship  between  economic  forces  and 
literature.* 


•I  am  indebted  to  Dr.  Allen  R.   Benham  for  a  ran-ey  of  these  lnte:pretations,   including  his 
own   theory. 

35 


The  first  is  Professor  Brander  Matthews'  theory  of  the  economic 
interpretation  of  literary  history,  under  which  the  succession  of  forms 
in  literary  history,  such  as  the  change  from  the  romance  to  drama, 
drama  to  essay,  essay  to  novel,  is  determined  by  economic  causes. 

The  second  is  Dr.  Gregory's  statement  that  literary  movements, 
so-called,  are  said  to  follow  "economic  or  industrial  change  of  a  sig- 
nificant nature,  involving  a  change  in  the  relative  power  of  economic 
groups  in  the  state,"  revealed  by  the  fact  that  in  every  historical  period, 
it  is  the  ideas  and  ideals  of  the  dominant  class  in  that  period  that  pre- 
vail. In  the  end  she  admits  that  all  art  that  is  economically  conditioned 
is  likely  to  be  mediocre. 

As  an  extension  of  these  theories.  Dr.  Benham  maintains,  in  addi- 
tion to  Professor  Matthews',  that  not  only  are  the  forms  in  literary 
history  determined,  but  also  the  contents  of  literature ;  and,  in  qualifica- 
tion and  enlargement  of  Dr.  Gregory's  thesis,  that  not  only  is  mediocre 
art  but  also  the  greater  art  determined  by  economic  causes.  He  is 
unwilling  to  accept  Dr.  Gregory's  limitation,  because  she  fails  to  ad- 
duce any  criteria  for  the  determination  of  "universal  and  undying  art", 
as  it  is  called.  Dr.  Benham's  final  summary  of  his  position  is  the 
following:  "I  contend  that  a  survey  of  literary  history  supports  the 
hypothesis  that  literary  development,  like  social  development,  is  a  mat- 
ter at  bottom  of  economic  causes ;  that  this  applies  to  subject  matter  as 
well  as  to  form;  and  that  the  'economic  interpretation  of  literature' 
must  be  given  an  important  place  in  literary  study." 

I  have  thus  far  traced  the  course  of  the  changes  in  the  theory  of 
economic  determinism  from  the  rigid  materialism  of  Karl  Marx  down 
to  the  more  or  less  flexible  and  relatively  modest  application  of  the 
theory  to  throw  light  upon  some  aspects  of  the  literary  problem.  One 
is  struck  with  the  fact  that  what  was  at  first  held  to  be  capable  of  ex- 
plaining a  multitude  of  phenomena,  indeed  all,  in  the  complexity  of  life, 
has  progressively  degenerated  from  an  all-inclusive  formula  to  a  moder- 
ately ambitious  theory.  The  applications  of  this  thesis  to  literature 
often  make  more  claims  in  the  argument  than  are  substantiated  in  the 
conclusions;  so  that  I  am  somewhat  in  doubt  as  to  whether  there  be 
any  theory  to  criticize,  when  we  get  down  to  actual  practice.  But  to 
one  who  is  interested  in  literature  in  an  academic  way  as  a  problem  for 
teaching — which,  I  assume,  involves  an  understanding  of  the  subject, 
literature — any  illumination  of  it  is  gratefully  accepted.  I  have  ob- 
served that  certain  electric  bulbs,  while  bravely  pretending  to  shed 
light,  grow  dim  to  the  point  of  extinction.  The  economic  interpretation 
of  literature  promised  at  first  to  shed  a  brilliant  illumination  upon  the 
nature  of  literature ;  but  it  has  grown  very  dim.    The  theory  itself  still 

86 


glows,  but  the  nature  of  the  subject  to  be  illuminated  recedes  gradually 
into  the  surrounding  gloom. 

The  question  we  ask  is,  What  is  literature?  It  is  answered  thus: 
"Literature  is  the  product  of  certain  materials  set  in  motion  by  economic 
causes."  This  has  led  to  a  deep,  thorough,  and  prolonged  study  of  eco- 
nomic causes,  much  to  the  advancement  of  history-  But  we  had  asked. 
What  is  literature?  Professor  Matthews  answers  us  that  the  history 
of  literary  forms,  at  all  events,  is  determined  by  the  conditions  of  ex- 
change. The  writer  wants  pay  for  his  commodity.  The  reader  is 
economically  incapable  of  buying  his  commodity  in  the  manner  in  which 
it  is  prepared.  A  new  package  for  the  article  is  therefore  devised,  to- 
gether with  a  marketplace  for  the  facilitation  of  ready  exchange.  The 
new  package  is  called  a  play,  and  the  marketplace,  a  theatre.  The 
writer's  patrons  may  come  to  the  market  and  buy  their  goods  at  a  rea- 
sonable price  and  save  all  the  expense  of  delivery  and  costly  package; 
which  in  book  form  are  in  fact  prohibitive. 

In  time  the  demands  of  a  public  for  political  information  or  local 
gossip  are  the  necessity  which  produce  the  invention  of  periodical  pub- 
lications. In  these  a  great  impetus  is  given  to  the  writing  of  essays, 
compact  and  pointed,  suited  to  the  small  page  of  the  journal.  Thus 
writers  and  readers  are  brought  together  through  the  medium  of  the 
essay.  Then  after  another  lapse  of  time,  many  causes  conspire  to  effect 
the  cheapening  of  printing  and  the  making  of  books;  and  producers 
and  consumers  are  brought  together  through  the  medium  of  the  novel, 
a  modern  version  of  the  romance.  Thus  ceaselessly  there  is  shown  the 
effect  of  economic  causes  upon  the  forms  of  literature.  This  theory 
is  interesting  but  not  astonishing.  That  the  manner  of  serving  a  public, 
whether  through  book,  periodical,  pamphlet,  or  play,  must  be  subject 
to  economic  causes,  since  these  are  all  material  things,  commodities  in 
the  market,  I  should  think  would  be  an  obvious  historical  fact.  These 
things  must  be  subject  to  the  demands  of  the  market  and  conditioned 
by  the  facts  of  exchange.  From  the  time  when  the  wandering  rhap- 
sodes, and  bards,  and  gleemen  received  largess  for  their  acceptable  oral 
entertainment  from  the  nobles  assembled  within  earshot  to  the  time 
when  the  writer  gets  cash  for  his  story  addressed  to  an  audience  of  two 
million  persons  through  the  Saturday  Evening  Post  that  has  been  true. 
Even  the  singer  is  worthy  of  his  hire. 

To  return  to  Professor  Matthews'  thesis,  while  he  has  been  con- 
cerned with  the  predominance  of  the  one  form  he  has  said  nothing 
about  the  accompanying  forms.  It  is  true  that  the  drama  dominated 
the  Elizabethan  period;  but  there  existed  along  with  this  form  such 
others  as  romance,  satire,  various  types  of  lyric  poetry,  essays,  charac- 

37 


terwriting,  and  so  on ;  and  these  were  in  their  respective  types,  of  most 
excellent  quality.  It  was  a  period  rich  in  form  and  content.  To  ac- 
count for  the  predominance  of  one  form  of  literature  by  saying  that 
it  was  cheap  in  price,  is,  it  seems  to  me,  to  say  an  obvious  thing.  When 
an  economic  interpretation  of  literary  form  is  being  given  it  is  not 
.satisfactory  to  slight  the  manifold  variety  of  literary  forms  which  were 
produced  (whatever  the  demand  may  have  been)  and  speak  of  the 
reasons  why  one  was  predominant.  It  would  not  yield  much  illumina- 
tion upon  the  question  of  literary  forms  in  our  day  to  say  that  the 
Saturday  Evening  Post  has  two  million  readers  because  it  is  cheap. 
Nor  would  it  illuminate  the  nature  of  that  literature  itself. 

Professor  Matthews'  thesis  has  to  do  with  purely  material  things 
rather  than  with  literature.    He  calls  his  theory  an  Economic  Interpre- 
tation of  Literary  History,  of  history,  that  is,  not  literature;  and  it  is 
really  an  explanation  of  the  rise  and  popularity  of  the  Elizabethan 
theatre,  of  the  periodicals  in  the  eighteenth  century,  and  of  the  art  of 
bookmaking  in  the  nineteenth.     When  he  speaks  of  forms  he  means 
external  forms,  mechanical  forms.     The  circumstances  he  speaks  of 
had  little  to  do  with  the  origins  of  literary  forms — they  had  all  existed 
before.    And  even  the  vagaries  of  popular  taste  are  sufficient  to  account 
for  the  changes  in  the  literary  forms  that  are  approved  at  any  time, 
quite  apart  from  economic  conditions.     Might  it  not  be  true  that  the 
demand  for  dramatic  presentations,  a  craving  for  that  form  of  amuse- 
ment long  prevalent  in  England,  caused  the  building  of  the  theatres? 
The  drama  came  first,  the  theatre  afterward.     The  cheapening  of  the 
amusement  created  a  larger  demand,  and  that  in  turn  a  larger  output. 
If  a  historian  were  to  present  a  thesis  upon  the  economic  interpretation 
of  the  contemporary  automobile  industry  and  should  say:    "The  Ford 
motor  was  easily  the  predominant  motor  in  the  early  twentieth  century 
because  it  was  cheap,"  we  might  well  ask,  I  think,  "But  what  about  the 
existence  of  the  other  types  ?    Are  they  to  be  accounted  for  purely  on 
economic  grounds?"    There  is  a  certain  point  to  the  analogy;  for  the 
drama  is  considered  by  some  the  democratic  literature  of  the  period, 
and  I  believe  the  Ford  may  be  considered  the  democratic  vehicle  of  our 
period.    But  at  the  same  time  the  analogy  points  out  a  very  significant 
distinction  in  the  respect  that,  while  these  machines  are  as  similar  as 
mechanical  ingenuity  in  standardization  can  make  them,  there  are  no 
two  plays  by  different  dramatists  alike.    They  are  as  different  as  two 
men  are  different.    The  explanation  has  to  do  with  purely  external  and 
transient  things,  and  throws  no  light  upon  a  phenomenon  which  is  es- 
sentially internal.     Men  will  adapt  themselves  to  conditions;  but  the 


38 


spirits  of  men  will  be  as  different  and  various  within  any  one  form  as 
they  are  different  in  different  forms. 

In  the  second  application  of  the  economic  theory  by  Dr.  Gregory, 
it  is  suggested  that  literary  movements  follow  economic  or  industrial 
change  of  a  significant  nature,  involving  a  change  in  the  relative  power 
of  the  economic  groups  in  the  state.  Since  the  ideas  and  ideals  of  the 
dominant  class  prevail  in  every  historical  period,  whenever  such  change 
occurs,  there  follows  a  literary  output  that  reflects  that  change.  Those 
authors  who  most  immediately  reflect  this  change  are  grouped  together 
and  called  a  movement.  Dr.  Gregory  observes  about  such  writers  that 
they  are  usually  considered  mediocre  artists.  This  is  as  much  as  to  say 
that  authors  who  are  nearly  determined  by  the  conditions  of  their  en- 
vironment are  lacking  in  something  that  we  have  come  to  regard  as 
characteristic  of  art.  Those  authors  who  have  been  interested  in  ideas 
rather  than  in  men,  and  especially  in  those  ideas  that  were  current  in 
their  times  concerning  economic  conditions,  lend  themselves  easily  to 
this  method  of  classification.  They  are  propagandists  rather  than  art- 
ists and  their  work  belongs  in  a  category  which  is  different  from  that 
of  creative  art  as  distinguished  from  informative  literature.  This  dis- 
tinction will  be  considered  later  in  this  paper. 

The  great-man  theory,  which  has  always  been  a  stumbling  block 
to  economic  historians,  and  is  especially  so  to  economic  historians  of 
literature,  is  thus  seen  to  be  involved  in  Dr.  Gregory's  application  of  the 
theory.  The  existence  of  the  great,  the  exceptional,  man  is  not  denied 
except  by  the  extreme  theorists.  Whatever  our  theories  may  decide  for 
us  in  this  matter,  even  to  the  point  of  denying  his  existence,  our  daily 
practice  is  a  measuring  of  men  in  our  judgment  and  an  evaluation  of 
them  involving  a  greater  and  a  lesser,  all  degrees  indeed  from  the  great 
to  the  mediocre.  I  cannot  very  well  analyze  here  the  methods  by  which 
the  results  are  attained ;  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  it  is  done.  I  know  at 
all  events  that  the  particular  consciousness  that  forms  these  judgments 
is  precisely  the  one  out  of  which  literature  issues.  This  is  a  realistic 
account,  not  a  theoretical.  Those  men,  then,  who  are  limited  in  their 
thinking  by  a  set  of  material  conditions  to  such  an  extent  that  no  es- 
sential differences  distinguish  them  from  each  other  are  legitimately 
considered  minor  writers.  A  theory  that  accounts  for  the  minor  writ- 
ers is  not  of  much  avail  in  understanding  literature,  for  the  reason  that 
the  literature  in  which  we  are  most  interested  is  produced  by  admitted- 
ly exceptional  men.  It  is  customary  to  admit  that  there  are  great  men 
in  history,  but  to  save  the  economic  theory  by  saying  that  the  influence 
of  these  men  remains  inoperative  until  economic  conditions  have  pre- 
pared men  for  its  acceptance.    In  literary  history,  on  the  other  hand,  it 

39 


is  a  commonplace  to  say  that  great  originators  create  the  taste  by  which 
they  are  enjoyed ;  and  it  is  very  Hkely  that  great  men  in  other  fields  of 
action  must  influence  the  judgments  of  men  whereby  their  theories  are 
ultimately  accepted.  It  seems  absurd  to  admit  the  existence  of  great 
men  and  then  to  deny  their  influence ;  for  it  must  be  by  their  influence 
that  they  are  considered  great.  That  their  own  generations  fail  to  ac- 
cept them  is  not  a  denial  of  their  greatness.  One  man  here  and  there, 
it  is  admitted,  is  influenced  by  something  other  than  these  economic 
forces,  which  it  is  assumed  control  men's  self-expression.  If  there  is 
an  exception  made  in  favor  of  the  one  there  must  be  exceptions  made  in 
favor  of  the  intermediate  grades  of  excellence  between  the  supreme  and 
the  mediocre,  that  mediocre  which  is  nothing  more  than  an  expression 
of  immediate  environment,  or  of  external  force  of  some  kind. 

Professor  Seligman  is  explicit  upon  the  point  of  the  exception  to 
be  made  in  favor  of  the  great  man.  Dr.  Gregory  limits  the  application 
of  her  theory  expressly  to  the  minor  men.  But  Dr.  Benham,  I  believe, 
is  inclined  to  question  the  validity  of  the  separation  of  literary  men  into 
two  groups,  one  minor,  and  one  greater ;  for  the  reason  that  the  basis 
for  this  division  is  not  systematic.  This  objection  necessitates  the  dis- 
cussion of  literature  artistically  or  ethically.  Such  a  discussion  econom- 
ic theorists  avoid,  or  reject  as  immaterial.  Under  the  early  form  of 
the  theory  when  all  ethical  and  spiritual  values  were  thought  to  be 
ultimately  economic,  this  would  have  been  a  tenable  position,  but  it 
cannot  be  considered  so  when  these  forces  are  of  such  exceptional  kind 
as  to  be  excluded  from  the  rigid  determinism  of  material  causes.  To 
exempt  them  for  such  a  reason  and  then  to  disparage  their  values  or  to 
deny  them  right  of  judgment  is  not  enlightening. 

The  third  way  of  economic  interpretation,  that  of  Dr.  Benham,  is 
connected  with  the  second,  concerning  the  influence  of  economic  causes 
upon  literary  movements,  the  individual  members  of  which  are  con- 
fessedly mediocre.  Dr.  Benham  contends  that  the  theory  may  be  ap- 
plied to  the  content  as  well  as  to  the  succession  of  forms,  as  an  ex- 
tension of  Professor  Matthews'  theory,  and  that  literary  development 
as  well  as  social  development  is  a  matter  at  bottom  of  economic  causes. 
To  illustrate  that  subject  matter  as  well  as  form  in  literature  is  largely 
determined  by  economic  causes,  he  uses  Mrs.  Gaskell's  novel  Mary  Bar- 
ton, in  which  the  struggle  between  social  classes  newly  created  by  an 
economic  change — the  Industrial  Revolution — is  represented.  Whether 
or  not  she  herself  was  aware  of  the  causes  of  the  conflict  she  describes, 
they  were  undoubtedly  to  be  traced  back  to  the  Industrial  Revolution. 
In  the  nineteenth  century  there  were  unquestionably  many  novels  which 
dealt  with  the  conflict  between  classes  in  society,  or  with  conditions 

40 


which  revealed  economic  inequaHties.  If  I  understand  Dr.  Benham 
correctly,  these  novels  were  determined  by  economic  causes  because 
the  conflicts  revealed  in  them  are  ultimately  to  be  traced  to  such  sources. 
If  one  were  to  generalize  upon  this  inference,  one  would  conclude  that 
the  life  of  mankind  at  any  time,  since  that  life  ultimately  rests  upon 
economic  bases,  is  therefore  economically  determined.  That  generaliza- 
tion is  avoided,  however,  by  admitting  place  for  the  operation  of  spirit- 
ual and  ethical  forces  apart  from  the  economic,  and  along  with  them. 
In  the  cases  of  the  authors  mentioned  there  was  apparently  no 
economic  compulsion  to  write  upon  the  subjects  chosen;  for  even  if 
they  were  not  of  independent  means,  the  reading  public  had  become 
relatively  numerous  and  of  diverse  interests;  so  that  their  demand 
might  be  satisfied  by  many  different  kinds  and  qualities  of  products. 
There  existed  along  with  these  social  novels  other  novels,  containing 
no  implications  of  class  conflict,  and  in  addition  to  these  various  kinds 
of  novels  a  manifold  variety  of  other  literary  forms.  Indeed  it  is  this 
very  complexity  that  encourages  Dr.  Benham  to  seek  for  some  mean- 
ing that  shall  explain  it.  If  the  economic  causes  determine  one  kind  or 
one  form  in  an  environment  of  conflict,  then  they  should  determine 
all.  If  a  determining  force  so  pervasive  as  an  environment  can  control 
but  a  few,  one  wonders  why  this  is  not  rather  chance  than  determinism. 
Of  the  many  novels  of  Mrs.  Gaskell  it  is  strange  that  only  in  one  or  two 
cases  should  her  work  be  susceptible  of  economic  interpretation ;  others 
are  called  ethical,  historical,  idyllic,  or  what  not,  and  these  all  deal  with 
contemporary  life  as  well  as  does  Mary  Barton.  Can  it  be  said  perhaps 
that  the  heredity  of  Mrs.  Gaskell  influenced  her  to  write  the  one  ftovel 
on  one  subject  and  others  on  others,  if  it  is  the  economic  heredity  that 
ultimately  controls?  If  the  economic  forces  were  contributing  through 
heredity  to  the  choosing  of  Mary  Barton,  then  what  about  the  others? 
I  confess  I  cannot  understand  why  the  fact  that  authors  have  written 
in  times  of  conflict  about  social  movements  in  which  individuals  are 
represented  as  suffering  from  the  effects  of  economic  causes,  should  be 
generalized  into  a  rule  of  interpretation.  To  me  that  fact  is  as  much  as  to 
say  that  the  author  has  chosen  a  subject  in  that  instance  in  which  he 
was  interested;  and  I  can  see  no  need  for  going  beyond  that  interest 
and  saying  that  it  was  controlled  by  economic  causes.  Why  did  eco- 
nomic causes  operating  upon  Mrs.  Gaskell's  likes  and  dislikes  cause  her 
to  write  a  novel  of  character  or  an  idyll?  Most  novelists  are,  I  sup- 
pose, persons  of  sympathy  and  insight  and  understanding.  What  more 
natural  than  that  they  should  be  attracted  by  the  miseries  and  misfor- 
tunes of  their  fellowmen  and  should  seek  for  the  causes  of  these  and 
try  to  arouse  the  understanding  of  men  toward  accomplishing  some 


mitigation!  That  it  represents  deliberate  choice  rather  than  any  com- 
pulsion must  be  shown  by  the  great  variety  of  different  kinds  of  litera- 
ture any  one  author  may  write.  It  is  a  common  occurrence  to  find 
works  of  so  different  a  kind  written  by  one  man  that  it  is  sometimes 
impossible  to  believe  that  they  have  come  from  one  and  the  same  per- 
sonality. Of  such  works,  differing  so  much  in  kind,  one  may  possibly 
have  dealt  with  economic  matters. 

There  have  always  been  authors  who  have  been  keenly  interested 
in  the  arrangements  of  society  in  their  time  and  who  have  pondered 
the  ways  of  explaining  the  causes  of  human  misery.  There  have  al- 
ways existed  along  with  such  men  others  who  have  ignored  these  prob- 
lems. And  those  writers  who  have  had  a  direct  intellectual  interest 
in  these  social  problems  in  some  works  have  in  other  works  utterly 
ignored  them.  This  is  true  not  only  of  literature  after  the  theory  of 
economic  interpretation  was  broached  and  after  the  Industrial  Revolu- 
tion was  accomplished.  Sophocles  writes  of  life  in  terms  of  tragedy. 
His  interest  is  not  in  classes  or  their  conflicts  so  much  as  in  individuals 
and  their  struggles  with  the  social  will,  or  with  what  the  Greeks  called 
Fate.  His  work  has  always  been  regarded  as  the  type  of  what  is  known 
as  artistic  work.  He  tries  to  present  a  faithful  image  of  what  he  con- 
siders the  most  representative  facts  of  life,  and  he  is  not  hampered  by 
any  preconceptions  of  theory  to  account  for  the  facts.  Euripides,  his 
contemporary,  is  more  a  student  of  his  time.  His  tragedies,  on  ac- 
count of  this  primarily  intellectual  interest,  are  full  of  acute  observa- 
tions on  contemporary  life.  Those  of  his  plays,  however,  which  are 
considered  the  more  excellent  are  usually  lacking  in  this  immediate  al- 
lusiveness.  These  are  adjudged  the  more  artistic,  or,  if  that  is  a  mean- 
ingless qualifier,  they  are  the  plays  that  most  powerfully  affect  the 
feelings  of  the  generality  of  men.  But  if  the  reader  were  first  of  all 
an  investigator  of  social  conditions,  he  would  be  likely  to  rank  higher 
just  these  plays  that  most  conspicuously  recorded  contemporary  events 
and  ideas.  That  would  apparently  be  the  economically  determined 
literature,  like  Mrs.  Gaskell's  Mary  Barton.  But  what  of  the  others? 
They  seemed  to  proceed  at  that  time  immediately  out  of  the  feelings 
evoked  by  religious  needs  and  demands.  Euripides'  work  was,  I  be- 
lieve, accepted  by  the  intelligentsia,  but  was  sternly  criticised  by  the 
populace.  Which  was  the  dominating  class  that  controlled  literature? 
Two  kinds  of  literature  then  as  now  and  always  flourished  side  by  side. 
Chaucer  and  Langland  show  this  excellently.  Did  wealth  determine 
the  one,  and  lack  of  it  the  other?  The  intellectuals  were  wealthy; 
Euripides  had  independent  means.  But  suppose  wealth  determined 
one  and  lack  of  it  the  other,  either  in  the  patron  or  the  artist.     Then 

41 


that  would  surely  imply  a  greater  homogeneity  in  proportion  as  wealth 
was  more  widely  diffused.  But  Dr.  Benham's  thesis  starts  from  the 
very  opposite  standpoint.  He  tries  to  account  for  the  variety  and  com- 
plexity of  art  by  economic  causes.  And  to  do  this  he  has  an  ingenious 
method  of  accounting  for  those  works  of  literature  which  are  not  of 
immediate  economic  import  by  suggesting  that  such  literature  is  de- 
termined negatively;  that  is,  it  is  written  or  demanded  by  way  of  es- 
cape from  the  conflict  of  economic  conditions.  That  amounts  to  saying 
that  all  activities  of  men  that  under  examination  cannot  be  accounted 
for  on  economic  grounds  by  any  direct  or  indirect  logical  process  are 
undertaken  and  accomplished  under  compulsion  of  escape  from  eco- 
nomic conditions.  Economic  causes  then  after  all  explain  all  activities ; 
some  positively,  because  of  relationships  discoverable  by  the  intelli- 
gence ;  and  others  negatively,  because  the  relationships  are  not  discover- 
able by  the  intelligence.  We  shall  find  this  theory  applied  to  literature 
in  the  following  manner. 

The  literature  of  the  nineteenth  century  is  dealt  with  under  a  num- 
ber of  heads.  In  Mrs.  Gaskell's  work  it  is  found  that  one  novel  is 
concerned  with  class  conflicts,  one  with  a  religious  problem,  one  with 
an  ethical  problem,  one  with  character-study.  There  are  some  works 
in  the  period  called  romantic ;  some,  historical ;  some,  political ;  some, 
religious;  some,  realistic;  and  many  others  besides.  Under  each  of 
these  heads  it  is  an  easy  matter  to  find  many  other  subdivisions  accord- 
ing to  the  viewpoint  of  the  critic  who  examines  the  material.  One  view 
of  the  economic  theory  would  make  it  applicable  as  a  designation  for 
those  works  between  which  and  their  economic  background  some  re- 
lationship could  be  discovered  and  explained.  To  the  other  works  other 
designations  discovered  and  explained  in  similar  ways  would  be  ap- 
plied. But  according  to  Dr.  Benham's  view  these  designations  should 
all  be  merged  in  the  economic,  such  works  coming  into  being  because 
writers  compose  and  readers  read  them  to  escape  from  the  limitations 
imposed  upon  them  by  economic  forces,  and  therefore  are  negatively 
determined  by  these  same  forces. 

It  does  not  seem  to  me  to  be  a  very  illuminating  explanation  of  a 
complexity  to  say  that  some  part  of  it  results  from  certain  forces  posi- 
tively as  can  be  shown,  and  that  the  rest  results  from  the  same  force 
negatively  because  it  cannot  be  shown  positively.  This  theory  amounts 
in  a  sense  to  a  sort  of  higher  synthesis  of  the  Marxian  theory  with  its 
moderate  successors.  Historians  objected  to  the  materialism  of  the 
Marxian  hypothesis  in  its  attempts  to  give  a  positive  explanation  to 
all  the  phenomena  of  life.    Accordingly  they  modified  it  to  admit  the 


43 


play  of  spiritual  and  ethical  forces  within  certain  limitations.  It  is 
within  these  limitations,  in  which  spiritual  and  ethical  forces  have  some 
scope  for  action,  that  literature,  as  I  understand  it,  is  to  be  found,  since 
literature  is  preeminently  the  medium  in  which  such  forces  find  their 
clearest  expression.  Dr.  Benham  includes  these  forces  and  their  free- 
dom within  the  confines  of  his  thesis  by  calling  this  freedom  escape,  or 
negative  expression;  and  thus  he  returns  to  something  similar  to  the 
Marxian  hypothesis.  To  reveal  the  difference  between  this  theory  and 
Professor  Seligman's  I  shall  include  here  a  series  of  quotations  from  the 
latter. 

Professor  Seligman  says  at  the  conclusion  of  his  statement  of 
the  case  for  the  economic  interpretation  of  history  that  "this  theory 
properly  understood  does  not  claim  that  every  phenomenon  of  human 
life  in  general,  or  of  mental  life  in  particular,  is  to  be  explained  on 

economic  grounds No  such  claim  can  be  countenanced  for 

the  obvious  reason  that  economics  deal  with  one  kind  of  social  relationr?, 
and  that  there  are  as  many  kinds  of  social  relations  as  there  are  classes 
of  social  wants."  Again  "Economics  deal  with  only  one  kind  of  social 
utilities  or  values  and  can  therefore  not  explain  all  kinds  of  social 
utilities  or  values."  And  again  "The  more  civilized  a  society  the  more 
ethical  its  mode  of  life.  But  to  become  more  civilized,  to  permit  the 
moral  ideals  to  percolate  through  continually  lower  strata  of  the  popu- 
lation, we  must  have  an  economic  basis  to  render  it  possible.  Not 
until  the  economic  conditions  of  society  become  ideal  will  the  ethical 
development  of  the  individual  have  a  free  field  for  limitless  progress. 
Only  then  will  it  be  possible  to  neglect  the  economic  factor  which  may 
henceforth  be  considered  as  a  constant.  The  economic  conception  of 
history  properly  interpreted  does  not  neglect  the  spiritual  forces  in 
history;  it  seeks  only  to  point  out  the  terms  on  which  the  spiritual  life 
has  hitherto  been  able  to  find  its  fullest  fruition." 

According  to  Professor  Seligman's  explanation  the  complexity  and 
variety  of  literature  today  would  be  accounted  for  on  the  ground  that 
a  broader  and  more  stable  economic  basis  had  been  prepared  for  the 
readier  expression  and  percolation  of  moral  ideals  and  that  the  limits 
against  which  the  spiritual  has  chafed  in  the  past  have  been  .sufficiently 
removed  to  allow  it  fuller  fruition.  Ethical  ideals  have  always  existed 
in  the  exceptional  individual  and,  of  course,  by  implication  in  the  in- 
termediate individuals,  and,  I  should  think,  potentially  in  most  men; 
but  they  have  had  little  opportunity  for  expression  because  of  the  time 
and  energy  required  for  supporting  life.  The  spiritual  life  has  always 
existed  among  men  but  it  has  not  been  allowed  to  find  expression  ex- 


44 


cept  among  the  favored  few  in  the  main  until  a  new  method  of  co- 
operation was  introduced  for  the  preparation  of  that  essential  economic 
basis  out  of  which  the  spiritual  life  grows  in  a  multitude  of  forms. 

If  this  is  a  correct  interpretation  of  Professor  Seligman's  theory, 
I  am  willing  to  accept  it  as  very  valuable  among  others  for  an  under- 
standing of  the  motives  that  have  actuated  men.  But  he  leaves  open  a 
very  large  loophole  for  the  escape  of  literature  from  his  method  of 
interpretation  when  he  explicitly  exempts  spiritual  and  ethical  forces 
from  the  operation  of  this  theory  and  admits  (as  does  Dr.  Benham) 
that  so-called  great  men  appear  by  chance  and  that  ethical  and  spiritual 
ideals  taught  by  such  men  lead  the  mass  of  mankind  to  higher  levels, 
becoming  thus  influential  among  the  forces  that  affect  progress.  The 
rule  that  explains  the  acts  of  such  men  is  this:  that  "there  is  a  new 
principle  and  a  new  rule  for  every  act  of  greatness."  Historically  con- 
sidered, if  the  exemption  for  ethical  and  spiritual  forces  is  made,  this 
exempted  field  is  the  one  occupied  in  life  by  literature,  and  the  econom- 
ic theory  can  have  little  place  for  operation  there. 

Literature  is  now  studied  historically  mainly  in  three  ways:  in 
one  as  a  part  of  the  manifold  activities  of  man  and  therefore  accorded 
its  proportionate  rank  among  other  activities  in  historical  study;  in 
another  it  may  be  regarded  as  having  a  history  of  its  own  separate  from 
its  background  and  consisting  of  the  relations  and  continuities  of  liter- 
ary movements ;  or  in  the  third  way  it  may  be  regarded  as  a  con- 
temporaneous record  of,  or  commentary  upon,  the  successive  environ- 
ments in  which  it  has  been  produced. 

The  first  is  normal  history. 

The  second  study  tends  to  make  literature  seem  to  have  been  the 
preoccupation  of  men  who  have  kept  themselves  aloof  from  life.  It 
gives  literature  an  unwholesome  air  of  disinterestedness  and  exclusive- 
ness,  and  makes  it  lack  in  appeal  to  ordinary  men  and  women.  In  the 
study  of  an  individual's  work  it  tends  to  ignore  those  writings  in  which 
he  comments  upon  the  conditions  of  his  own  time  and  upon  the  ideas 
current  among  his  contemporaries.  It  tends  in  short  to  etherealize 
literature  and  make  it  the  plaything  of  esthetes. 

The  third  is  the  method  that  has  yielded  the  most  interesting  and 
valuable  results  in  bringing  literature  back  to  the  soil  out  of  which 
it  has  sprung.  It  has  brought  literature  more  and  more  into  the 
consciousness  of  ordinary  men,  and  has  made  it  seem  a  counterpart  of 
their  lives,  not  a  thing  set  aside  for  dilletantes  and  supermen.  To  show 
what  relationships  exist  between  political  ideals,  social  ideals,  ethics, 
religion,  art,  national  psychology,  race,  natural  environment  and  so  on. 


45 


is  to  bring  literature  back  into  the  affairs  of  men ;  and  that  was  a  serv- 
ice that  was  very  much  needed  in  our  Hterary  study  not  so  many  years 
ago.  But  excellent  as  it  is,  there  is  in  this  method  observable  a  tendency 
to  become  interested  chiefly  in  that  part  of  the  background  or  of  the 
relating  principle  that  the  author  affects  to  illustrate;  so  that  if  it  be 
proposed,  for  instance,  to  reveal  literature  as  related  to  the  political 
ideals  of  various  times,  the  reader  finds  himself  and  the  author  grad- 
ually yielding  to  the  superior  attraction  of  the  political  ideals  and  ne- 
glecting the  literature.  For  various  reasons  this  must  be  true.  The 
author  is  interested,  of  course,  in  his  study  of  conceptions  of  state, 
which  are  after  all  not  literature.  That  which  is  literature  he  has  to 
use  as  it  will  fit  the  thesis.  What  cannot  be  made  to  agree  is  neglected. 
The  reader  may  read  such  a  work  and  get  a  clear  impression  of  a 
species  of  continuity,  but  unless  he  be  well-informed,  be  left  quite 
ignorant  of  the  fact  that  a  great  deal  of  significant  literature  has  been 
ignored  in  order  to  obtain  the  impression  of  continuity.  He  will  find, 
too,  that  his  reading  is  not  far  different  from  ordinary  history  and  that 
the  works  read  are  rather  of  an  informative  kind,  works  of  an  obvious 
doctrinaire  quality,  not  purely  literary.  If  the  reader  be  well-informed 
in  literature  and  wonder  why  primarily  literary  works  are  omitted  and 
himself  try  to  make  them  serve  under  the  general  scheme,  he  will  find 
that  the  author  has  advisedly  ignored  them,  since  they  cannot  be  so 
explained.  In  all  historical  studies  of  literature  the  tendency  is  to  em- 
phasize history  and  to  make  literature  a  subsidiary  study,  and,  in  gen- 
eral, to  strain  the  issue,  to  warp  meanings  in  the  excess  of  partisan  zeal. 
The  general  or  special  historian  must,  from  the  nature  of  his 
postulate,  seek  to  present  an  explicable  continuity ;  he  must  seek  plaus- 
ible causes  for  known  effects,  and  endeavor  to  deduce  general  law  from 
the  observed  events.  For  the  man  who  seeks  general  laws  personali- 
ities  are  refractory  material ;  for  there  is  always  a  something  in  them 
that  eludes  the  limitations  of  general  schemes.  Literature  presents 
this  something,  this  essence  of  personality,  as  does  art,  better  than  any 
other  activities  of  man.  "There  is  no  master  principle  for  that  art 
whose  very  nature  it  is  to  shun  generality,  and  cleave  to  the  unique  na- 
ture of  each  individual  experience."  (Eastman.)  Therefore  the  histor- 
ian of  literature  has  the  difficulties  doubly  enhanced.  His  work,  if  it 
is  realistic,  gives  the  impression  of  being  a  history  in  one  place  and  a 
study  of  personalities  in  another  place;  the  two  can  never  be  quite 
fused  together  into  a  harmonious  and  satisfactory  unity.  The  economic 
theory  is  one  of  the  most  exacting  and  inclusive  of  general  laws  and 
must  therefore  reduce  to  one  level  all  the  authors  with  which  it  deals. 


4$ 


It  must  leave  no  place  for  qualitative  evaluations  which  every  reader 
makes  for  himself,  however  much  he  may  be  advised  to  the  contrary. 

In  the  applications  of  economic  theory  to  literature  that  have  been 
mentioned  above,  Professor  Matthews  is  concerned  only  with  forms 
and  with  these  in  an  extreme  material  way,  involving  no  attempt  at 
interpretating  the  evolution  of  literature  within  the  forms.  Dr.  Greg- 
ory finds  that  the  authors  which  are  amenable  to  the  requirements  of 
her  theory  are  mediocre.  These  both  are  insisting  upon  the  interpreta- 
tion of  literary  history — let  it  be  noted — not  the  interpretation  of  liter- 
ature. There  is  a  need  of  distinguishing  in  which  case  the  theory  is 
applicable.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  the  commercial  element  in  supply 
and  demand  and  the  changes  in  the  methods  of  communication  between 
an  author  and  his  public  are  material  things  of  which  a  material  ac- 
count may  be  given.  Nor  can  it  be  denied  that  those  writers  who  deal 
with  subjects  more  or  less  closely  related  to  conditions  of  an  economic 
nature,  may  be  grouped  according  to  some  economic  designation.  It 
is  of  such  men,  however,  that  Turgenev  says:  "Those  only  who  can- 
not do  better  will  submit  to  a  preconceived  program,  because  a  truly 
talented  writer  is  the  condensed  expression  of  life  itself,  and  he  can- 
not write  either  a  pamphlet  or  a  panegyric — either  would  be  too  mean 
for  him."  Work  that  is  doctrinaire,  or  didactic,  or  written  as  a  con- 
tribution to  rational  knowledge  may  be  included  within  this  group ;  but 
in  both  cases  it  will  be  seen  that  literature  as  such,  containing  and  ex- 
pressing some  indefinite  flavor  of  personality,  cannot  be  readily  in- 
cluded in  the  scheme.  The  more  imaginative  literature,  that  which 
makes  its  appeal  to  the  feelings  and  emotions  instead  of  to  the  reason  is 
almost  invariably  given  scant  justice  in  historical  treatises.  The  fact 
is,  of  course,  that  literature  (as  art)  is  in  each  case  something  unique, 
an  expression  of  a  personality  different  from  any  other.  It  has  quali- 
ties and  values  distinct  and  separate  from  all  men  of  the  same  time 
and  of  other  times,  although  it  must  be  expressed  in  materials  in  a 
sense  common  to  all  contemporaries. 

The  historian,  of  whatever  kind,  is  concerned  with  the  common 
fund  of  materials  in  which  men  work ;  the  student  of  literature  per  se, 
in  the  manner  in  which  the  material  has  been  moulded,  formed,  made 
into  new  creations.  This  historian  is  interested  in  what  is  alike  among 
many  writers ;  the  investigator  of  literature,  in  what  is  different — in 
values  and  qualities. 

Shelley  states  the  case  thus:  "Poets  of  any  age  have  a  generic 
resemblance  under  which  their  specific  distinctions  are  arranged." 
History  will  of  course  be  concerned  with  the  generic  resemblance,  liter- 
ary study  itself,  with  the  specific  differences.    It  is  worth  while  to  quote 

47 


Shelley  here  again.  His  conceptions  of  art  are  especially  appropriate, 
since  it  is  he  above  all  who  is  held  up  as  an  example  of  the  manifesta- 
tion of  economic  forces,  and  who  is  valued  more  and  more  for  his 
doctrinaire  utterances.  Referring  to  the  extent  to  which  the  study  of 
contemporary  works  may  have  colored  his  compositions  as  well  as 
those  of  others,  he  says :  "It  is  impossible  that  anyone  who  inhabits  the 
same  age  with  such  writers  as  those  who  stand  in  the  foremost  ranks 
of  our  own,  can  conscientiously  assure  himself  that  his  language  and 
tone  of  thought  may  not  have  been  modified  by  the  study  of  the  pro- 
ductions of  those  extraordinary  intellects.  It  is  true,  that,  not  the 
spirit  of  their  genius,  but  the  forms  in  which  it  has  manifested  itself, 
are  due  less  to  the  peculiarities  of  their  own  minds  than  to  the  peculiar- 
ity of  the  moral  and  intellectual  conditions  of  the  minds  among  which 
they  have  been  produced.  Thus  a  number  of  writers  possess  the  form, 
whilst  they  want  the  spirit  of  those  whom,  it  is  alleged,  they  imitate; 
because  the  former  is  the  endowment  of  the  age  in  which  they  live,  and 
the  latter  must  be  the  uncommunicated  lightning  of  their  own  mind." 

Here  Shelley  states  clearly  enough  the  case  for  the  two  methods 
of  study,  the  historical  and  the  individual.  The  historical  consists  of 
the  moral  and  intellectual  conditions  in  which  the  writer  lives,  the  lat- 
ter concerns  itself  with  what  Shelley  calls  "the  uncommunicated  light- 
ning" of  the  individual  mind.  There  are  works  in  which  one  is  not 
aware  of  much  uncommunicated  lightning  of  personality.  Such  are 
obviously  concerned  with  the  moral  and  intellectual  ideas  of  their  own 
time,  just  as  they  might  be  concerned  with  the  theory  of  economic  de- 
terminism today,  and  their  work  is  usually  expressed  in  pedestrian 
prose.  Their  work  is  the  result  of  the  operation  of  the  reasoning  facul- 
ty unaided,  the  record  of  analysis  applied  to  logical  ends ;  they  have  a 
purpose,  a  doctrine,  a  propaganda,  which,  if  they  attempt  imagination 
controls  or  vitiates  its  quality,  and  therefore  destroys  the  necessary 
impression  of  realism.  Oftentimes  they  are  not  so  much  working  with 
ideas  as  ideas  are  working  with  them.  From  a  literary  standpoint  they 
are  mediocre. 

Shelley  is  considered  a  primarily  doctrinaire  writer  by  many  mod- 
ern interpreters  who  tend,  I  have  observed,  to  ignore  those  poems  of 
his  which,  like  all  of  Keats',  have  no  discoverable  social  message;  and 
they  reduce  his  revolutionary  or  social  poems  to  rational  schemes.  In 
the  preface  to  Prometheus  Unbound  he  speaks  of  such  interpretations 
in  this  way:  "It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  I  dedicate  my  poetical 
compositions  solely  to  the  direct  enforcement  of  reforms,  or  that  I  con- 
sider them  as  containing  in  any  degree  a  reasoned  system  on  the  theory 
of  human  life.  Didactic  poetry  is  my  abhorrence;  nothing  can  be  equally 

4S 


well   expressed   in   prose   that   is   not  tedious   and  supererogatory   in 
verse." 

This  last  statement  is  one  that  I  should  like  to  commend  to  the 
rationalizers  of  literature.  True  verse  expresses  some  things  which 
cannot  be  expressed  in  prose.  By  verse  is  meant  poetry,  and  by  poetry 
probably  the  equivalent  of  the  German  word  Dichtung,  including  im- 
aginative literature  in  general.  If  Shelley's  revolutionary  poems  had 
been  reducible  "in  any  degree"  to  a  reasoned  system  on  the  theory  of 
human  life,  according  to  his  own  statement,  they  would  not  have  been 
written;  for  what  could  equally  well  have  been  expressed  in  prose  is 
tedious  and  uncalled-for  in  verse.  Of  course  there  may  be  some  com- 
fort for  the  rationalizers  in  the  judgment  of  Plato  that  "poets  utter 
great  and  wise  things  which  they  do  not  themselves  understand."  Shel- 
ley may  not  have  understood  the  great  and  wise  things  which  subse- 
quent interpreters  have  been  able  to  bring  down  to  the  level  of  a  rea- 
soned system.  But  it  does  not  seem  likely.  As  to  his  purpose  he  con- 
tinues thus:  "My  purpose  has  hitherto  been  simply  to  familiarize  the 
highly  refined  imagination  of  the  more  select  class  of  poetical  readers 
with  beautiful  idealisms  of  moral  excellence ;  aware  that  until  the  mind 
can  love,  and  admire,  and  trust,  and  hope,  and  endure,  reasoned  prin- 
ciples of  moral  conduct  are  seeds  cast  upon  the  highway  of  life  which 
the  unconscious  passenger  tramples  into  dust,  although  they  would 
bear  the  harvest  of  his  happiness." 

I  have  quoted  Shelley  extensively  because  he  is  the  storm  center 
around  which  contrary  opinions  rage ;  and  to  show  how  one  who  is 
claimed  by  both  sides  in  the  controversy  insists  that  the  author  must 
be  regarded  as  a  personality  apart  from  environment,  or  law,  in  so  far 
as  he  is  a  literary  artist.  The  time  gives  the  form,  the  idea,  the  mater- 
ials; the  person  himself,  the  spirit,  the  life-giving  realization,  the  un- 
communicated  lightning.  The  external,  the  material,  the  formal,  may 
be  studied  historically;  the  essence,  individually.  The  theory  of  eco- 
nomic interpretation  may  be  regarded  as  including  history  or  as  one 
of  the  historical  methods ;  in  either  case  its  limitations  in  literature  are 
clear.  But  we  are  concerned  with  explaining  the  nature  of  literature. 
The  remainder  of  this  paper  will  concern  itself  with  that  rather  am- 
bitious project. 

Before  proceeding  with  that,  however,  it  will  be  necessary  to  ob- 
tain some  measure  of  consent  to  my  assumption  that  we  mean  by  liter- 
ature in  the  main  an  artistic  activity.  I  am  assuming  that  literature  is 
one  of  the  fine  arts.  Critics  are  wont  to  make  a  division  between  what 
they  call  the  literature  of  information  and  that  of  inspiration;  or  be- 
tween the  literature  of  knowledge   and  that  of  power,   respectively. 

49 


These  divisions  correspond  realistically  with  certain  obvious  diflferences, 
although  there  are  border  literatures  in  which  both  qualities  are  found 
together.  Some  informational  literature  is  written  in  an  inspirational 
manner,  and  some  literature  of  power  is  written  with  the  purpose  of 
presenting  certain  ideas.  When  we  speak,  for  instance,  of  literature 
as  one  of  the  branches  of  study  in  a  university,  I  think  we  will  admit 
that  it  is  considered  as  one  of  the  fine  arts,  or,  at  all  events,  as  a  separ- 
ate study  along  with  history,  philosophy,  ethics,  sociology,  politics, 
among  the  liberal  arts.  To  the  extent  that  literature  is  primarily  in- 
formative it  will  properly  belong  in  that  division  of  studies  where  its 
facts  are  dealt  with.  But  to  the  extent  that  in  appealing  to  the  emotional 
and  imaginative  side  of  man's  nature  as  well  as  to  the  intellectual,  it 
properly  belongs  in  the  category  called  literature  in  the  university's 
division  of  studies.  It  is  with  literature  in  this  sense  that  I  propose  to 
deal,  and  to  try  to  indicate  why  it  is  not  possible  for  any  historical  or 
general  and  so-called  scientific  interpretation  to  give  a  satisfactory  ex- 
planation of  it. 

Anyone  who  has  listened  and  contributed  to  discussions  in  the  var- 
ious groups  dedicated  to  that  purpose  during  the  last  year  or  so  must 
have  been  impressed  with  the  tendency  for  all  questions  of  an  ethical 
or  esthetic  nature,  when  the  argument  is  pursued  to  its  ultimate  source, 
to  result  in  a  sharp  division  upon  the  hypothesis  which  underlies  them. 
One  group  will  be  found  to  be  mechanists;  another,  vitalists.  Those 
who  are  of  the  type  of  mind  of  the  scientific  specialists  are  usually  the 
mechanists ;  those  who  are  concerned  with  the  conventional  liberal  stud- 
ies are  in  the  main  vitalists.  One  group  attempts  to  explain  life  as  if 
it  were  composed  of  chemical  elements  controlled  by  physical  forces. 
To  this  group  life  is  physics  and  chemistry.  This  the  vitalists  deny. 
They  claim  in  addition  something  that  they  may  call,  perhaps,  vital 
force. 

In  general  the  method  of  explanation  of  the  one  school  is  analytic 
and  abstract ;  they  attempt  to  resolve  things  living  or  dead  into  their 
elements  and  to  discover  the  general  laws  whereby  these  elements  are 
combined  to  form  the  variety  of  organic  as  well  as  inorganic  sub- 
stances. The  attitude  they  assume  toward  inorganic  material  and  which 
undoubtedly  works  there,  they  apply  to'the  investigation  of  all  phenom- 
ena, organic,  inorganic,  or  conscious.  They  give  the  impression  of 
knowing  of  what  all  these  things  are  composed  and  how  the  compon- 
ents work  together,  much  as  a  machinist  will  explain  the  construction 
and  operation  of  his  engine.  In  each  case  the  result  of  the  analysis, 
the  element,  is  a  simple,  self-existent,  thing.  When  this  has  been 
reached  one  may  retrace,  build  up,  synthesize,  make  the  machine,  which 


will  then  be  completely  understood  in  all  its  parts.     This  is  the  im- 
pression the  mechanist  makes  upon  the  innocent  listener. 

His  opponent  is  skeptical  of  the  possibility  of  the  analysis  includ- 
ing everything,  in  such  a  way  that  by  assembling  them  you  get  what  you 
began  with,  in  the  case  of  organism  or  consciousness.  He  may  accept 
the  analytic  method  as  far  as  it  goes  and  then  insist  upon  adding  an- 
other element,  spirit,  force,  whatever  it  may  be  called,  of  which  neither 
he  nor  anyone  else  knows  much  in  an  analytic  way.  He  knows,  how- 
ever, that  when  he  demands  proof  from  the  mechanist  of  such  a  kind 
as  would  convince  him  when  applied  to  inorganic  material,  it  is  not 
forthcoming.  He  gets  the  answer  that  it  cannot  be  given  yet.  The 
questioner  doubts  that  it  will  ever  be  given.  He  is  firmly  convinced 
that  another  way  of  looking  at  things  must  be  utilized  in  attempting 
to  understand  life.  The  organic  is  to  him  everywhere  and  always  dif- 
ferent from  the  inorganic,  so  long  as  it  is  still  alive.  That  the  human 
body  is  composed  of  chemical  elements  he  may  well  grant.  But  that 
fact  was  shrewdly  suspected  long  since.  We  were  told  that  it  was  but 
clay,  or  dust,  inspired  with  the  breath  of  the  divine;  which  if  but  the 
inspiration  be  left  out  is  the  same  thing.  But  the  opponent  of  the  me- 
chanist insists  upon  keeping  the  inspiration  so  long  as  life  last.  He  will 
not  believe  that  what  is  true  of  the  inorganic  is  equally  true  of  the  or- 
ganic ;  that  matter  and  force  are  the  same  as  living  matter  and  living 
force  or  that  any  Uving  thing  can  be  reduced  to  elements  in  any  sense 
simple.  To  him  it  seems  that  the  scientific  mind  cannot  free  itself  from 
the  prejudice  that  effects  may  exist  the  causes  of  which  it  ignores.  He 
believes  that,  however  minute  the  analysis,  always  the  resultant  will  be 
found  to  be  as  intricate  a  complexity  as  the  organism  with  which  the 
analysis  began,  and  will  always  be  living.  Any  so-called  primal  plasm 
yet  discovered  turns  out  to  be  so  subtly  complex  that  elemental  sim- 
plicity is  as  far  removed  as  before.  These  things  being  so  this  inquir- 
er's method  of  explanation  is  not  that  of  analysis  in  the  sense  of  finding' 
the  ultimate  indivisible  and  self-existent  elements  out  of  which  the  or- 
ganism may  be  made.  It  is  rather  that  of  discovering  and  revealing 
relationships  between  the  organism  and  the  environing  organism,  be- 
tween the  smaller  and  contained  and  the  larger  and  containing ;  for  not 
anything  can  be  understood  by  itself  alone  in  this  field.  The  very  fact 
of  life  involves  everywhere  interdependence,  interrelation  between  or- 
ganisms of  lower  and  higher  order.  The  part  must  be  looked  at  in  the 
light  of  the  whole.  For  these  reasons  the  questioner's  attempts  at  ex- 
planation are  those  of  analogy  and  metaphor  instead  of  analysis.  He 
returns  the  impression  of  life  as  complex  organism  in  forms  which  are 
themselves  as  living  and  complex  as  life  seems  to  his  inquirying  intelli- 


51 


gence.  He  seeks  for  a  harmony  composed  of  diversity  and  complexity, 
and  returns  it  as  such ;  but  the  minutest  form  of  his  explanation  will 
be  an  organism,  a  living  thing,  in  its  sphere,  as  well  as  the  organism  of 
which  it  makes  up  a  part.  This  is  the  method  of  art.  That  art  is  imita- 
tion of  life  is  an  old  statement  that  often  needs  renewal.  It  is  not  a 
statement  of  what  simple  elements  make  it  up  mechanically.  The  artist 
does  not  say:  "These  are  the  things  which  may  be  added  together  to 
make  up  life."  He  says  rather:  "This  is  what  life  seems  like  to  me." 
He  employs  in  addition  to  the  conventional  categories  under  which  the 
universe  appears  to  us,  the  one  of  organism;  and  when  he  speaks  of 
living  things  then  he  uses  the  corresponding  category. 

If  he  works  in  literature,  in  words,  it  is  the  same.  It  seems  ob- 
vious that  the  very  existence  of  literature  itself  is  proof  that  life  can- 
not be  explained  adequately  to  man  except  by  some  living  counterpart. 
I  think  it  can  be  shown  that  even  in  the  simplest  of  the  elements  with 
which  the  author  works,  words,  the  process  is  always  that  of  returning 
something  like  the  thing  intended.  Words  themselves,  one  must  be 
tempted  to  think,  arise,  in  this  manner. 

Speculations  upon  the  origin  of  language  may  possibly  be  vain ; 
even  the  origins  of  expressive  words  of  recent  coinage  are  apparently 
lost  in  obscurity.  Every  year  some  new  word  or  phrase  seizes  the  popu- 
lar imagination,  becomes  universally  accepted,  and  yet  so  soon  after 
its  acceptance  its  origin  cannot  be  accounted  for.  The  origins  of  hu- 
man institutions,  the  origins  of  language  itself  cannot  be  known.  Of 
language  we  may  a  least  say  that  it  is  in  one  sense  to  be  regarded  as 
an  instrument  of  communication,  whether  we  conjecture  its  origin  to 
have  been  imitational  or  interjectional.  As  mere  utterance  it  was  prot)- 
ably  an  accompaniment  of  gestures  and  grimaces  intended  to  communi- 
cate meanings  which  were  existent  before  such  efforts  arose.  .\s  com- 
munication language  is  broader  and  more  fundamental  than  as  facili- 
tation of  thought,  and  it  is  especially  this  aspect  of  language  which  we 
are  interested  in.  If  we  cannot  discover  origins  we  can  at  least  observe 
some  changes  which  are  occurring  in  recent  time  and  upon  this  basis 
speculate  more  securely. 

Our  dictionaries  increase  in  size  by  leaps  and  bounds ;  recent  edi- 
tions assume  the  volume  of  encyclopedias.  This  increase  is  explained 
by  the  fact  that  our  modern  life  is  continually  creating  new  material 
forms,  and  scientific  investigation,  new  distinctions  which  must  be 
characterized  by  new  names.  In  some  cases,  in  fact  in  most  cases,  the 
method  of  naming  new  things  is  the  simple  one  of  fofining  the  new 
name  out  of  elements  already  existing  in  our  own  or  some  foreign 
language.    It  is  a  sort  of  compounding  process  by  which  the  new  word 

52 


explains  the  construction  or  functioning  of  the  new  machine  or  new 
scientific  classification.  The  process  of  constructing  new  words  by 
this  compounding  may  be  more  or  less  complex,  as  will  be  seen  by 
analyzing  some  simple  everyday  words  down  to  their  so-called  roots. 
But  the  method  whereby  this  compounding  has  been  accomplished  is 
loo  remote  to  be  known.  But  it  is  significant  that  these  roots  seem  to 
be  the  equivalents  of  signs;  they  are  integral  signs,  significant  in  their 
entirety,  and  not  divisible  into  parts.  Whether  there  may  be  going  on 
some  process  of  word-making  similar  to  that  by  which  these  indivisible 
roots  were  discovered  is  an  interesting  question  for  us  here  and  now. 
The  method  by  which  the  new  machine  is  named:  the  wireless,  the 
aeroplane,  the  automobile,  is  simple  enough.  But  there  are  other  real- 
ities that  are  not  so  easily  named. 

We  may  assume,  I  think,  that  along  with  the  numerous  mechani- 
cal inventions  which  are  continually  being  named  anew  there  are  cer- 
tain accompaniments  in  a  more  strictly  human  sphere  which  may  not 
be  named  in  so  mechanical  a  way.  The  possibilities  of  sensation  and 
emotion  and  experience  in  general  are  enlarged  and  intensified.  These 
also  are  new  things.  The  aeroplane,  for  instance,  has  brought  within 
the  reach  of  actual  experience  those  sensations  and  emotions  which 
poets  have  tried  to  interpret  and  express  by  a  process  of  sympathetic 
imagination  out  of  the  flight  of  birds.  I  suggest  this  as  one  of  the 
most  obvious  and  yet  simple  examples  of  that  continuous  coming  of 
new  human  experience  which  has  been  always  true  from  the  time  when 
something  was  to  be  communicated  by  gesture  or  grimace  and  sounds 
until  today,  and  for  which  language  has  come  gradually  to  be  the  al- 
most exclusive  means  for  communication.  For  this  new  experience 
what  new  name  will  serve?  The  simple  compounding  process  that  is 
used  to  name  the  machine  or  logical  distinction,  as  I  have  described 
it  above,  will  not  serve  in  this  case.  The  components  of  this  new  ex- 
perience are  not  known,  as  are  the  functions  and  parts  of  the  machine. 
It  seems  not  to  have  components ;  it  seems  rather  to  be  something  whole, 
integral.  It  must  be  named  then,  if  at  all  by  one  word,  by  some  process 
of  imitation,  or  creation,  or  intuition.  Something  felt  must  find  ex- 
pression directly  in  language,  not  through  the  mediation  of  the  reason- 
ing process.  And  although  this  new  experience  is  one  that  may  have 
been  enjoyed  by  many  persons,  not  every  \>ne  of  them  will  be  able  to 
hit  upon  the  name  that  will  at  once  obtain  common  consent  as  the  most 
adequate.  This  is  not  so  esoteric  a  matter  as  it  may  seen.  Numerous 
slang  words  and  phrases  arise  in  just  this  way,  and  anyone  who  tries 
to  define  such  words  and  phrases  will  discover  that  they  are  not  synon- 
ymous with  others;   they  express  exactly  something  which  had  not 

53 


been  hitherto  expressed.  Such  words  and  phrases  become  the  expres- 
sive as  well  as  the  reputable  stock  of  our  language.  A  too  rigid  academ- 
icism has  often  contrived  to  limit  the  natural  growth  of  language.  Too 
much  study  of  grammar  and  too  little  study  of  speech  obstruct  the 
natural  development  of  that  organic  reflection  of  life  that  we  call  lan- 
guage. It  must  be  admitted  that  any  word  which  carries  its  expres- 
siveness in  its  face  instead  of  in  its  etymology  like  so  many  of  our 
I^atinisms  and  other  borrowings  is  a  more  suitable  word  for  us. 

The  naming  of  things  is  a  process  that  never  ceases.  My  purpose 
so  far  has  been  to  show  how  that  process  varies  from  the  naming  of 
material  things  to  the  naming  of  intimate  experiences.  This  latter  pro- 
cess is  a  species  of  creation,  a  bringing  into  articulateness  of  something 
which  is  not  yet  so  existent.  The  process  cannot  be  described ;  it  may 
be  called  intuition  and  representation.  Language  is  in  this  sense  the 
medium  which  imitates  something  that  exists  nameless  in  the  emotions 
or  feelings  or  sensations.  Samuel  Butler  has  some  richly  suggestive 
things  to  say  upon  this  question  in  his  Note-Books.    "We  want  words 

to  do  more  than  they  can ,"  he  says.    "We  expect  them  to  help 

us  to  grip  and  dissect  that  which  in  ultimate  essense  is  as  ungrippable 
as  shadow." 

We  may  proceed  from  this  process  which  we  may  assume  takes 
place  in  the  making  of  the  word  and  say  that  a  literary  work  is  the 
result  of  a  similar  activity,  with  the  difference  that  it  includes  a  wider 
scope.  It  will  represent  a  series  of  experiences,  or  a  complex  of  emo- 
tional states,  or  a  new  thought,  for  which  no  collocation  of  words,  ar- 
ranged according  to  any  pattern  available,  will  be  adequate.  It  will 
represent,  too,  a  something  new,  something  not  analyzable — since  it 
conies  out  of  an  organic  and  personal  source — but  of  infinitely  complex 
inter-relationships,  which  must  find  expression,  if  at  all,  in  something 
similar  in  some  artistic  medium,  in  imitation,  or  likeness,  or  analogy. 
This  new  creation  must  make  its  appeal  directly  to  the  full  personality. 
It  cannot  appeal  indirectly  through  the  intellect  alone  and  hope  for 
adequate  representation.  Hoffding,  the  Danish  philosopher,  expresses 
the  nature  of  literature  when  he  says :  "Every  ideal  possessed  of  signi- 
ficance will  reveal  itself  as  a  great  concentrated  expression  of  tendencies 
of  life  which  must  have  been  moving  spontaneously  before  they  took 
on  the  forms  of  thought  and  imagery." 

A  poem  is  the  most  excellent  type  of  this  literary  form.  It  may 
be  regarded  as  an  enlarged  word,  brought  into  being  by  the  same  pro- 
cess and  serving  a  similar  but  more  complex  need.  It  is  for  this  reason 
that  a  poem  is  called  an  enlarged  metaphor,  just  as  a  new  word  is  a 
metaphor.    And  all  literature  of  an  imaginative  kind  is  metaphor,  what- 

54 


ever  type  it  may  be.  "For  the  true  poet,"  says  Nietzsche,  "the  metaphor 
is  not  a  rhetorical  figure,  but  a  vicarious  image  which  actually  hovers 

before  him  in  the  place  of  a  concept The  character  is  not  for 

him  an  aggregate  composed  of  a  studied  collection  of  particular  traits, 
but  an  irrepressibly  live  person  appearing  before  his  eyes,  and  diflfering 
only  from  the  corresponding  vision  of  the  painter  by  its  own  continued 
life  and  action."  Literature,  in  so  far  as  it  tries  to  represent  that  vast 
organism  life,  as  it  is,  must  be  metaphorical.  So-called  literature,  pre- 
senting a  theory  or  a  system  or  a  body  of  knowledge  or  any  abstraction, 
is  not  attempting  to  represent  life.  By  its  very  limitations  it  can  only 
represent  a  portion  of  living  reality.  The  philosophers  provide  excel- 
lent testimony  to  the  truth  of  this  contention.  It  was  Aristotle  who  said 
that  "the  greatest  thing  by  far  is  to  be  a  master  of  metaphor;"  for  it 
itnplies  an  intuitive  perception  of  similarity  in  dissimilars.  Literature 
then  is  an  attempt  to  reproduce  the  living  functioning  of  the  world  in 
an  immediate  manner — by  likeness.  The  analytic  process  is  not  that 
at  all ;  it  is  on  the  contrary  an  attempt  to  find  the  content  as  composed 
of  elements  to  be  combined  in  many  ways  to  form  the  whole.  This 
can,  from  the  very  nature  of  organism,  not  become  an  adequate  repre- 
sentation of  life. 

The  danger  that  lurks  in  the  supposition  that  such  an  explanation 
of  life  is  adequate  may  plainly  be  seen  for  instance  in  the  fate  of  cer- 
tain theories  of  economics.  When  scientific,  or  supposedly  scientific, 
conceptions  of  society  based  upon  such  methods  are  applied  in  practice 
they  may  work  for  a  time.  But  recent  experience  has  shown  that  such 
an  interpretation  cannot  work  long.  When  Ruskin  applied  a  method 
to  economics  which  may  be  called  the  organic,  and  indicated  that  eco- 
nomic science  must  be  made  to  include  the  whole  man,  the  whole  per- 
sonality, in  its  reasoning,  since  there  is  no  reality  corresponding  to  the 
abstract  economic  man,  he  applied  what  is  the  essential  literary  attitude 
toward  this  science.  He  humanized  it  and  made  it  serviceable  to  actual 
men.  The  element  upon  which  economic  science  was  to  be  built  was  the 
individual  man  with  all  his  wants  included,  as  an  integral  part  of  the 
complexity  of  society.  This  made  the  science  inexact  and  largely  de- 
stroyed the  value  of  the  deductive  method.  I  believe  it  is  granted  that 
it  was  the  impulse  given  to  economic  thought  by  Ruskin  and  similar 
literary,  or  organic,  thinkers  that  is  responsible  for  the  trend  now  taken 
by  economic  studies,  resulting  in  social  legislation  to  make  law  and  in- 
dustrial organization  aware  of  the  laborer  as  a  man  and  not  an  abstrac- 
tion. Labor  has  even  been  allowed  to  maintain  that  it  is  not  a  com- 
modity. What  has  happened  in  this  case  is  an  earnest  of  what  must 
happen  to  any  theoretical  conception  of  the  nature  of  society  that  is 


based  upon  a  mechanistic  hypothesis.  The  mechanistic  conception  is 
no  doubt  an  efficient  tool  for  scientific  investigation.  But  when  we 
erect  our  understanding  of  Hfe  upon  that  basis,  it  is  as  much  as  to  say: 
"I  have  constructed  a  very  remarkable  tool  or  machine.  It  works  so 
well,  so  efficiently  that  I  am  lost  in  admiration  of  it.  I  shall  govern  my 
life  according  to  it,  and  serve  it."  So  the  speaker  denies  himself  a  per- 
sonality, a  spirit  or  soul,  and,  as  it  were,  gets  himself  inside  of  his  ma- 
chine and  makes  himself  a  mere  part  of  it.  But  a  machine  with  no 
mind  outside  of  it  and  controlling  it  is  not  a  conceivable  thing.  Wher- 
ever and  whenever  men  have  chosen  to  erect  such  machines  and  to  ab- 
dicate their  essential  humanity  to  them  there  have  not  been  wanting 
minds  outside  controlling  and  using  them  to  their  own  personal  ends. 
The  phenomenon  that  the  world  is  now  being  permitted  to  speculate 
upon  with  horror  is  not  necessarily  a  new  thing.  The  name  of  the 
theoretical  Absolute  is  different  and  the  priests  who  serve  it  are  clad  In 
shining  armor.    It  is  abstraction  governing  life. 

There  is  another  way  of  looking  at  a  mechanistic  conception,  as 
T  have  tried  to  indicate.  Man  might  say :  "No  machine  nor  tool  that  I 
create,  whether  mechanical  or  intellectual,  however  efficiently  it  may 
work,  can  understand  me,  the  mind  which  gave  it  birth,  and  certainly 
shall  not  control  me.  It  must,  like  all  tools,  serve  me.  It  must  serve 
V)  extend  and  enrich  my  personality,  and  at  the  same  time  to  make  me 
more  aware  of  other  personalities  like  myself,  and  to  make  this  larger 
life  that  we  call  the  world  more  and  more  a  larger  personality  conscious 
of  itself  as  such."  If  we  apply  this  attitude  to  the  present  world  we 
shall  find  that  this  larger  organism  is,  as  it  were,  suffering  from  an 
hypertrophy  of  its  Germanic  organ,  which  is  in  such  a  diseased  condi- 
tion from  the  falsity  of  the  hypothesis  upon  which  it  endeavors  to  func- 
tion, that  all  the  cells  of  life  and  health  are  feverishly  at  work  in  a 
wonderfully  correlated  and  co-operative  attack  upon  the  diseased  por- 
tion to  reduce  it  to  its  normal  functioning.  When  this  shall  have  been 
accomplished,  the  world  will  be  organized  upon  that  democratic  basis 
in  which  each  part  of  the  whole,  as  in  other  organisms,  will  have  its 
work  determined  by  the  whole  and  not  by  itself  alone.  We  will  have 
discovered  that  there  is  no  self-existent  element  in  that  larger  organ- 
ism; but  that  each  realizes  itself  in  its  relationships.  That  will  be  an 
application  of  the  category  of  personality  to  the  world;  that  is,  it  will 
be  the  literary  method  of  looking  at  life  applied  to  the  whole.  A  recent 
political  writer  applies  the  pluralist  theory  to  government  in  arguing  for 
the  presence  of  sovereignty  within  sovereignty  as  follows:  "One  of 
the  qualities  of  life  always  is  the  possession  of  unstable  equilibrium. 
Chemically  and  physically  the  equilibrium  of  a  living  body  is  unstable, 

66 


and  cannot  be  maintained  except  by  the  presence  of  life.  We  may  not 
know  what  life  is,  but  at  least  we  know  that  it  has  the  property  of  main- 
taining unstable  or  dynamic  equilibria.  What  is  true  of  the  individual 
is  also  true  of  society.  Apart  from  the  existence  of  life,  an  imperium 
in  imperio  is  as  impossible  a  position  for  a  state,  regarded  mechanistical- 
ly, as  is  standing  upright  impossible  for  a  man,  but  if  life  be  present, 
it  is  the  right  attitude." 

According  to  the  view  that  opposes  mechanism  then  the  world  is 
an  organism  composed  of  more  or  less  minute  organisms  down  to  the 
smallest  hitherto  discovered,  all  of  which  are  interdependent,  and  in- 
terwoven in  functional  relationships,  and  which  are  explicable  only  in 
the  light  of  these  relationships.  This  infinite  complexity  it  is  the  busi- 
ness of  literature  to  try  to  reveal,  through  a  medium,  language,  which 
is'  constructed  after  the  same  method,  an  organic  counterpart. 

So  far  I  have  spoken  of  the  reasons  why  the  world  must  be  re- 
garded as  an  organism  and  not  as  a  mechanism,  if  literature  is  to  exist 
at  all.  There  is,  however,  another  fact  as  well  known  to  each  one  of 
us  as  the  fact  of  life.  That  is  personality.  When  I  mentioned  the  re- 
ality of  the  great-man  conception,  I  suggested  that  our  daily  empirical 
observations  of  men  led  us  to  evaluate  personalities.  We  regard  men 
qualitatively,  whether  we  are  conscious  of  it  or  not.  That  is,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  organism,  there  is  the  consciousness,  or  that  which  we  call 
the  personality  and  of  which  men  signify  the  presence  in  exceptional 
cases  by  the  term  personal  magnetism.  We  become  aware  of  this  by 
actions,  words,  gestures,  and  the  reactions  to  the  relations  of  life.  The 
writer  is  one  who  is  capable  of  giving  this  estimation  of  personalities, 
including  his  own,  in  expressions  which  are  unified,  organic,  and  whole. 
As  in  the  case  of  the  organism  this  personality  cannot  be  regarded  as  a 
self-sufficient  individuality.  It  can  only  be  understood  as  participating 
in  the  wider  personal  life,  and  the  world  in  which  it  exists  can  only  be 
understood  as  related  to  it  in  perception  and  volition.  The  world  we  see 
is  the  world  as  we  see  it.  And  each  individual,  in  so  far  as  he  is  pos- 
sessed of  the  power  may  communicate  his  own  vision  of  it  to  us. 

We  know  that  no  two  men  ever  think  alike  even  when  they  com- 
mit themselves  to  the  same  formulas ;  how  much  less  should  they  feel 
alike  ?  As  Schiller  says :  "Two  men  with  different  fortunes,  histories, 
and  temperaments  ought  not  to  arrive  at  the  same  metaphysic,  nor  can 
they  do  so  honestly;  each  should  react  individually  on  the  food  for 
thought  which  his  personality  affords,  and  the  resulting  differences 
ought  not  to  be  set  aside  as  void  of  ultimate  significance.  Nor  is  it  true 
or  relevant  to  reply  that  to  admit  this  means  intellectual  anarchy.  What 
it  means  is  something  quite  as  distasteful  to  the  absolutist  temper,  viz.. 


toleration,  mutual  respect,  and  practical  co-operation."  This  statement 
ought  to  apply  with  even  more  force  in  relation  to  the  emotional  and 
volitional  differences  of  men.  When  we  hear  then  of  the  influence  of 
environment  tending  toward  the  levelling  of  men,  it  should  be  borne  in 
mind  that  even  in  this  one  general  environment  no  two  men  have  quite 
the  same  environment  after  all,  and  that  it  is  these  differences  that  liter- 
ature is  especially  interested  in.  If  we  were  limited  to  the  expression 
of  the  cognitive  faculties  alone,  the  same  intellectual  environment  would 
be  more  likely  to  cause  likeness  than  the  expression  of  the  other  facul- 
ties which  make  up  the  whole  personality. 

I  have  collected  several  expressions  from  widely  separated  sources 
in  order  to  show  what  men  who  have  made  it  their  business  to  create 
literature  have  to  say  about  it  as  a  revelation  of  individuality.  Arnold 
Bennett  makes  this  commonsense  suggestion  regarding  the  enjoyment  of 
literature  in  his  advice  to  readers.  When  you  are  in  doubt  about  your 
judgment  of  a  book,  he  says,  ignore  style,  "and  think  of  the  matter  as  you 
would  think  of  an  individual."  That  is  so  delightfully  simple  a  maxim 
one  critic  in  a  thousand  would  think  of  it.  "What  we  should  read," 
says  Butler,  "is  not  the  words  but  the  man  whom  we  feel  to  be  behind 
the  words."  A  book  is  an  individual ;  why  not  think  of  it  as  you  would 
of  an  individual?  vSurely  your  neighbor  is  something  more  than  an 
expression  of  economic  necessity. 

Zola  is  one  writer  who  is  still  held  up  as  a  naturalist.  He  is  sup- 
posed to  represent  man  as  the  sport  of  natural  forces  and  without 
independent  personal  existence.  He  says  that  "art  is  nature  seen  through 
the  medium  of  a  temperament;"  by  which  he  obviously  means  that  it 
is  the  personal  view  of  nature  that  distinguishes  it,  and  gives  it  signifi- 
cance. Francis  Thompson  insists  that  "the  object  of  writing  is  to  com- 
municate individuality,  the  object  of  style  adequately  to  embody  that 
individuality :  and  since  in  every  individuality  worth  anything  there  are 
characteristic  peculiarities,  these  must  needs  be  reproduced  in  the  em- 
bodiment." De  Gourmont  speaks  to  a  similar  effect:  "The  sole  ex- 
cuse which  a  man  can  have  for  writing  is  to  write  down  himself,  to  un- 
veil for  others  the  sort  of  world  which  mirrors  itself  in  his  individual 
glass He  should  create  his  own  aesthetic — and  we  should  ad- 
mit as  many  aesthetics  as  there  are  original  minds,  and  judge  them  for 
what  they  are,  not  what  they  are  not."  I  quote  these  men  because  they 
are  representatives  of  the  art  they  try  to  explain,  in  preference  to  sci- 
entists ;  for  I  note  that  when  scientists  speak  of  literature  they  speak  of 
it  under  general  classifications,  such  as  they  are  wont  to  work  with. 
But  I  have  been  trying  to  show  that  literature  exists  on  a  level  where 
generalizations  do  not  correspond  with  reality.     I  suspect  that  scien- 

58 


lists  of  this  kind  even,  when  they  are  dealing  with  men,  are  as  keenly 
aware  as  any  others  of  the  fallacy  of  generalizing.  I  am  sure  that  the 
process  of  explaining  a  personality  is  one  that  is  not  carried  on  in  a  gen- 
eral fashion  but  that  it  is  a  close  study  of  each  unique  specimen;  and 
that  in  many  cases  it  may  take  a  long  time  to  finish  the  explanation  of 
a  character.    A  satisfying  work  of  art  is  such  a  personality. 

In  conclusion  I  would  quote  a  statement  from  Vernon  Lee,  who 
has  spent  her  life  in  art  criticism,  and  who  seems  to  be  as  competent 
a  person  as  can  be  found  to  speak  of  the  history  and  development  of 
this  subject.    Its  later  development  has  been  from  the  artistic  criticisnj 
of  Sainte-Beuve,  a  sort  of  empirical  personal  criticism;  through  the 
philosophies  of  art  of  Hegel  and  Taine,  which  tended  to  subordinate 
the  personal  element  to  the  historical  view — to  environment,  civiliza- 
tion, and  race,  archaeology,  comparative  religion,  anthropology,  and  kin- 
dred studies ;  until  now  in  the  end  it  is  back  again  at  the  starting-point ; 
so  that  "we  seem  to  return,"  as  she  says,  "to  the  earliest  and  naivest  an- 
swer to  the  question.  Why  has  a  work  of  art  come  to  be  just  what  it 
is  ?  namely,  that  there  is  a  special  creative  power  in  the  artist."  We  must 
consider  "the  individual  endowment  of  each  artist  in  its  turn  selecting, 
rejecting,  transforming  the  traditions  which  he  has  received  from  his 
predecessors  and  the  tasks  he  has  accepted  from  his  paymasters."   This 
is  a  question  "upon  which  archaeology,  dealing  with  anonymous  or  un- 
documented works,  and  therefore  rather  with  schools  than  with  mas- 
ters, does  not  promise  much  help.    We  have  arrived  in  the  presence  of 
the  great,  the  mysterious  question  of  the  individual  artistic  endowment 
and  its  relation  to  the  general  temperament  and  life  of  the  individual 
artist.    This  is  a  question  for  the  psychology  of  individual  variations, 
that,  so  to  speak,  new-born  study  working,  as  it  must  work  sooner  or 
later,  in  concert  with  a  more  scientific  development  of  'Connoiseur- 
ship',  that  nowadays  still  rule-of -thumb  comparison  between  the  works 
of  a  master  and  his  pupils."    Miss  Lee  is  here  speaking  in  the  main  of 
the  plastic  arts ;  but  what  she  says  is  as  applicable  to  literature,  which 
we  have  contended  is  also  a  fine  art.    J.  E.  Spingarn  is  more  explicit 
upon  the  literary  question  in  these  words :  "granted  the  times,  the  en- 
vironment, the  race,  the  passions  of  the  poet,  what  has  he  done  with  his 
material,  how  has  he  converted  poetry  out  of  reality?    To  answer  this 
question — as  it  refers  to  each  single  work  of  art  is  to  perform  what  Is 
truly  the  critic's  vital  function;  this  is  to  interpret  'expression'  in  its 
rightful  sense,  and  to  liberate  aesthetic  criticism  from  the  vassalage  to 
Kulturgeschichte  imposed  upon  it  by  the  school  of  Taine."     It  seems 
that  the  attempted  explanation  of  the  nature  of  art  and  literature  by 
general  laws  is  being  found  inadequate.    Those  who  still  maintain  that 


59 


tradition  are  defending  a  forlorn  hope.  They  make  excellent  historians 
but  doubtful  literary  critics.  If  they  would  explain  literature  they  must 
study  it  in  each  case  in  the  creating  personality. 

Since  I  have  so  much  stressed  the  importance  of  looking  at  the 
world  as  personality,  it  ought  not  to  be  necessary  to  reassert  my  belief 
that,  if  we  would  really  understand  this  world,  literature  is  at  least  of 
equal  importance  with  any  and  all  scientific  studies.  I  subscribe  to 
Arnold  Bennett's  following  testy  declaration:  "Literature  instead  of 
being  an  accessory,  is  the  fundamental  sine  qua  non  of  complete  living 

he  who  has  not  been  'presented  to  the  freedom'  of  literature 

has  not  wakened  up  out  of  his  prenatal  sleep.  He  is  merely  not  born. 
He  can't  see;  he  can't  hear;  he  can't  feel,  in  any  full  sense.  He  can 
only  eat  his  dinner."  Bennett  has  here  excellently  described  that 
shrewd  American  advertiser  who  expressed  his  conviction  of  the  eco- 
nomic determination  of  life  in  this  manner:  "Tell  me  what  you  eat  and 
I'll  tell  you  what  you  are." 


60 


WHY  I  SYMPATHIZE  WITH  ENGLAND 


61 


WHY  I  SYMPATHIZE  WITH  ENGLAND 
March  1,  1917 

When  I  first  began  to  consider  the  preparation  of  this  paper  and  what 
would  be  the  necessary  limits  of  the  somewhat  vague  subject  assigned 
to  me,  in  order  to  do  some  show  of  justice  to  it  in  a  few  minutes  of 
exposition,  I  thought  of  presenting  an  account  of  the  steps  which  had 
led  England  into  the  war,  and  to  try  to  justify  her  in  that  action.  I, 
and  all  of  us  together,  I  suppose,  have  read  thousands  of  pages,  in  all 
manners  of  presentation,  from  the  cold  and  calm  to  the  fervid  and  pas- 
sionate, on  the  cause  of  each  belligerent.  We  have,  in  our  own  think- 
ing, carefully  noted  each  hard-won  step  in  a  strictly  logical  chain  of 
reasoning  to  establish  our  contention,  whatever  it  might  be.  Then  we 
have  been  disconcerted  within  the  week  to  find  that  the  premises  upon 
which  we  had  built  were  not  so  secure  as  they  ought  to  be.  We  have 
nevertheless  gone  to  work  again  with  patience  to  rebuild  that  absolutely 
necessary  structure  of  logic  with  which  we  were  to  confound  our  op- 
ponent when  next  we  should  meet.  Then  again  we  have  had  the  mor- 
tification of  learning  that  there  might  be  some  reasonable  doubt  as  to 
the  truth  of  the  simple  materials  of  our  thought.  Now  after  such  a 
course  has  been  continued  for  a  time,  one  begins  to  question  the  ad- 
visability of  proceeding  in  the  same  way.  Remembering  such  exper- 
iences, I  have  wondered  whether  it  would  be  worth  while  again  to 
construct  a  seeming  tower  of  strength  for  my  mental  security;  for  al- 
most certainly  it  will  be  undermined  again  by  opponents  in  the  argu- 
ment. Whether  I  try  it  again  or  not,  I  know  that  the  constructive  pro- 
cess will  keep  going  on,  in  spite  of  the  most  persistent  discouragements. 
It  is  in  this  never-dying  spirit  of  constructiveness  after  all  that  the 
hope  of  the  future  lies ;  especially  now  that  that  spirit  is  so  sorely  tried 
by  the  spectacle  of  a  world  in  ruins.  For  it  is  but  a  manifestation  of 
the  desire  to  arrange  the  world  in  an  orderly  fashion,  which  each  one 
of  us  has  within  him ;  that  is,  it  is  the  desire  for  peace.  So  although  I 
.shall  not  primarily  attempt  to  erect  another  of  those  vainly  rational 
structures  of  which  I  have  spoken,  I  want  to  pay  a  tribute  to  that  in- 
cessantly constructive,  rational  attitude.  It  is  the  world's  indirect  ex- 
pression of  a  powerful  longing  for  peace,  and  therefore  worthy  of 
every  encouragement. 

With  this  explanation  then  I  propose  to  examine  into  that  basis 
of  emotion,  instincts,  feelings,  (you  may  call  it  prejudice,  if  you  will) 

63 


which  persists  in  throwing  up  one  logical  structure  after  another  so 
determinedly.  In  these  matters  we  do  not  always  reason  in  order  to 
convince  ourselves.  The  conviction,  more  often  than  not,  has  come 
before  the  reasoning  process  begins ;  and  it  remains  hidden  down  below 
somewhere,  weaving,  working,  building,  seemingly  undisturbed  by  what 
catastrophes  overtake  its  labors.  It  is  this  basis,  down  below,  in  the 
twilight,  curiously  compact  of  shreds  of  feeling  and  patches  of  emotion, 
threaded  together  with  filaments  of  thought  and  reflection,  that  I  in- 
tend to  look  into  tonight.  This  is  a  worthy  labor,  too,  as  well  as  the  ac- 
tivities I  have  spoken  of.  We  should  consider  everything  in  every 
possible  way,  if  thereby  some  light  may  be  cast  in  dark  places. 

I  told  a  friend  what  I  proposed  to  do :  to  write  an  explanation  of 
my  reason  for  favoring  England  in  the  world  war.  He  said,  "What's 
the  use?  Everybody  knows  that."  To  which  I  answered:  "Well,  if 
that  is  so,  I  should  be  very  glad  to  find  out  myself,  too.  That's  what  I 
propose  to  do."  And  it  may  turn  out  that  everybody's  explanation  is 
different  from  the  true  one.  It  is  an  instance  of  the  unfortunate  habit 
of  generalizing  to  say  that  because  a  man  has  been  a  Rhodes  Scholar 
at  Oxford  University  he  must  necessarily  be  a  supporter  of  England, 
whatever  England's  cause  may  be.  Englishmen  are  not  united  on  the 
question  of  the  war.  Should  Rhodes  Scholars  be  more  united  than 
they  are?  At  all  events,  Oxford  as  I  remember  her,  will  be  anxious 
that  I  seek  truth. 

Some  of  you  who  have  studied  the  English  constitution  and  English 
government  may  say  in  respect  of  the  plan  I  have  set  myself:  "That 
certainly  is  characteristically  English."  For  it  is  so  much  emphasized 
that  the  English  rely  upon  instinct  to  extricate  themselves  from  predica- 
ments, that  they  avoid  reasoning  out  their  institutions  in  advance  but 
rely  upon  instinct  to  guide  them  when  the  crisis  is  at  hand.  Their  con- 
stitution itself  is  an  imperishable  record  of  crises  met  in  this  way,  of 
institutions  patched  up  to  meet  new  demands  in  the  national  life,  and 
of  the  organic  rather  than  the  rational  nature  of  English  government. 
They  characterize  it  themselves  as  a  "curious  penumbra  of  law  and 
morality."    It  is  the  policy  of  "muddle  through"  glorified. 

So  I  shall  have  to  admit  that  my  method  seems  English  in  a  sense. 
But  I  am  examining  into  the  past.  They  apply  the  attitude  toward  the 
future,  too.    Between  these  two  acts  there  is  a  difference. 

I  returned  ten  years  ago  from  a  three-years'  stay  at  Oxford.  I 
spent  a  large  part  of  my  vacation  time  on  the  continent.  Vacations  in- 
clude a  larger  period  of  time  in  England  than  in  America.  Terms  at 
Oxford  comprise  24  weeks  in  the  year ;  vacation,  28 ;  so  that  half  of  my 
time  might  be  spent  in  England  and  half  away.    It  is  of  the  impressions 


of  these  years  in  England  and  on  the  continent  that  I  intend  to  speak, 
recording  them  as  they  came  to  me,  favorable  and  unfavorable  to  one 
country  and  the  other,  and  amalgamated  to  form  that  foundation  which 
determines  my  subsequent  reasoning.  First  of  all  I  shall  consider  Eng- 
land, as  the  land  and  its  life  made  favorable  impressions  upon  me. 
(This  may  include  what  may  seem  minutiae;  but  I  am  sure  that  each 
one  who  introspects  into  the  causes  of  his  actions  and  moods  from  day 
to  day  will  agree  with  me  that  minutiae  sometimes  become  mountainous 
in  their  effects.) 

I  shall  never  forget  the  appearance  of  the  English  landscape  as  it 
spread  out  before  us  when  we  approached  on  the  steamer,  and  as  it 
rolled  away  before  our  vision  from  the  car  windows  on  the  journey 
from  Liverpool  to  Oxford.  Neatness,  orderliness,  cosiness,  homeli- 
ness are  the  words  that  come  at  once  to  mind  to  describe  it.  The  vivid 
greenness  of  it  in  varying  shades  of  the  color,  the  tidiness  and  trimness 
of  the  general  effect,  gave  it  that  quality  of  beauty  that  one  associates 
with  a  well-kept,  well-watered  garden.  It  was  not  nature  on  the  grand 
scale,  such  as  we  know  her.  But,  it  seemed  to  me,  that  the  word  "home" 
as  applied  to  an  entire  nation  might  here  seem  not  a  far-fetched,  emo- 
tionally patriotic  expression.  Long  generations  past  had  left  the  traces 
of  their  efforts,  and  nature  had  been  thoroughly  domesticated.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  even  a  tramp  in  England  might  consider  himself  at 
home.  This  is  a  vivid  impression,  as  you  see;  it  was  never  erased  or 
overlayed;  but  rather  deepened  and  intensified;  so  that  a  poem  de- 
scribing the  simple  English  countryside,  like  Rupert  Brooke's  Grant- 
chester,  stirs  me  more  deeply  than  anything  else  I  know.  At  Oxford 
I  found  the  tutors  kindly  and  tolerant  and  anxious  to  make  one  at  home 
in  the  new  environment.  I  am  not  recording  this  as  anything  exception- 
ally favorable;  for  that  is  a  teacher's  business,  I  suppose.  I  had  not 
been  in  Oxford  very  long  before  I  became  absorbed  in  the  study  of 
its  very  strange  system,  so  different  from  our  American  system  that 
the  contrast  is  forced  upon  one  whether  he  be  given  to  thinking  or  not. 
The  more  I  studied  the  more  favorably  impressed  I  became.  I  found 
it  to  have  been  devised  in  the  spirit  of  freedom  and  in  the  interest  of 
freedom.  What  appears  at  first  sight  to  be  a  rigid  and  limited  curri- 
culum reveals  itself  to  be  a  flexible  system  which  does  what  it  is  de- 
vised to  do  with  a  minimum  of  effort  and  time  lost  in  the  administra- 
tion of  red  tape.  It  was  a  humanistic  system,  always  aware  of  each 
and  every  individual  under  its  instruction  and  directing  its  efforts 
towards  the  development  of  the  individual,  not  according  to  some  pre- 
determined needs,  not  according  to  the  needs  of  some  research  scholar 
who  would  utilize  the  labors  of  his  students  for  his  own  personal  pur- 


65 


poses,  but  according  to  the  requirements  of  the  pupil  as  they  were  dis- 
covered in  his  close  intellectual  association  with  his  tutor.  It  gave  me 
then  an  impression  of  freedom  in  instruction,  and  of  confidence  in  the 
intellectual  integrity  of  the  learner.  This  was  a  surprising  and  pleasing 
discovery  to  one  fresh  from  a  system  more  like  manual  of  arms,  or  at 
best,  school  drill.  I  began  to  see  how  essentially  undemocratic  our 
conception  of  university  education  in  reality  was,  and  how  necessary 
it  was  that  we  in  America  adopt  some  system  conceived  in  the  spirit  oi 
what  I  found  at  Oxford.  Happily  that  has  been  largely  accomplished 
in  the  ten  years  since  I  left  England,  even  though  the  new  system  is  not 
yet  administered  with  unvarying  understanding  and  success. 

Of  English  athletics  so  much  has  been  said  of  late  years  that  I 
venture  with  some  hesitancy  to  speak  of  it  again.  However,  it  made 
such  an  impression  that  I  must  make  the  venture.  The  athletic  system, 
too,  is  humanistic ;  fitted  to  the  students,  not  the  other  way  about.  There 
was  no  university  gymnasium  at  Oxford,  I  learned  with  great  surprise. 
If  you  can  imagine  a  landscape  like  the  one  I  describe  above,  and  a 
climate  to  go  with  it,  that  is,  a  fairly  tractable  one,  equal  and  temper- 
ate, and  furthermore  a  fondness  for  exercising  in  the  open  inherited 
from  sportloving  ancestors,  and  a  tradition  that  a  man  who  doesn't 
take  outdoor  exercise  is  a  "slacker,"  as  they  say — if  you  can  imagine 
these  things,  you  can  readily  see  that  there  is  no  need  of  a  g)'mnasium, 
no  need  of  a  hotbed  for  the  forced  culture  of  exercise,  no  need  of  bad 
imitation  of  a  very  real  and  wholesome  thing.  The  athletic  system  then 
was  a  method  by  which  the  desire  and  need  of  exercise  expressed  itself 
naturally.  It  was  commonsense.  No  man  so  weak,  none  so  effeminate, 
but  that  there  was  something  he  might  do  and  did  do,  if  nothing  more 
than  walking  across  country  or  punting  on  the  Cher.  This  is  another 
indication  of  the  method  of  making  the  educational  ideal  suit  the  need 
of  the  individual,  a  democratic  ideal. 

In  connection  with  athletics  more  nearly  than  with  any  other  in- 
stitution, I  think  it  would  be  pertinent  to  attempt  an  analysis  of  what 
the  English  call  "fair  play."  It  is  the  spirit  that  animates  the  athletic 
system.  It  is  shown,  of  course,  in  the  insistence  that  every  man  shall 
have  a  chance.  It  is  shown  again  in  the  playing  of  games  in  the  desire 
not  to  have  any  advantage  over  an  opponent.  I  never  heard  of  rules 
contests  at  Oxford ;  I  never  saw  any  athlete  complain  that  a  game  was 
being  stolen  from  him ;  I  got  the  impression,  indeed,  that  the  unwilling- 
ness to  do  these  things  was  a  part  of  the  training  one  got  from  playing. 
In  a  university  tennis  match,  when  a  player  smashed  a  ball  in  a  man- 
ner impossible  to  return,  I  have  often  heard  him  apologize  for  it.  In 
a  rugby  match  or  a  soccer  match  I  have  heard  men  apologizing  for  un- 


66 


necessary  violence.  Obviously  these  games  were  not  being  played  for 
any  purpose  beyond  the  game  itself.  We  would  say  that  that  is  in- 
efficiency. The  Englishman  might  say  that  self  control,  honesty,  honor, 
understanding  may  not  be  so  well  cultivated  if  the  efficiency  of  the 
game  were  the  primary  consideration.  Always  the  question  is,  "What 
is  the  human  value  of  this  thing?"  "In  the  eager  anxiety  about  win- 
ning, may  I  not  do  violence  to  my  better  self?"  This  did  not  appear  to 
me  to  be  a  form  of  egoism,  of  undue  attention  to  self-development ;  but 
an  expression  of  lively  regard  for  the  opponent,  sympathy  for  him  and 
understanding  of  him,  and  keen  desire  to  retain  his  confidence  and  es- 
teem. That,  I  think  is  the  essence  of  "fair  play"  as  it  is  shown  in  games. 
I  liked  it  very  much. 

While  I  was  at  Oxford  I  had  an  excellent  opportunity  to  observe 
what  the  military  spirit  in  England  was.  Lord  Roberts  had  agitated 
for  stronger  military  preparation  for  a  long  time,  and  as  a  result  of  his 
work  there  was  recruited  a  number  of  voluntary  companies  at  Oxford. 
I  am  not  certain  as  to  the  status  of  the  new  army,  but  I  think  it  was 
similar  to  our  militia.  What  interested  me  was  the  fact  that,  although 
service  was  quite  optional,  there  was  a  keen  sentiment  about  it  in  the 
various  colleges  and  a  devotion  to  the  cause  great  enough  to  call  the 
men  out  to  drill  under  strict  military  supervision  at  six  o'clock  every 
morning.  The  men  were  rather  enthusiastic  about  their  work  and 
willing  to  undergo  sacrifices  for  what  seemed  simply  patriotic  reasons. 
It  contrasted  strangely  with  what  I  had  seen  of  college  drill  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Washington.  Let  it  be  remembered  that  it  was  purely  volun- 
tary and  that  no  stigma  attached  to  refusing  to  volunteer. 

Toward  the  end  of  my  three  years  abroad  I  had  progressed  so  far 
in  my  understanding  of  the  English  character  that  I  could  say  that  I 
liked  the  English  people  very  much.  I  had  at  length  discovered,  under 
the  forbidding  protective  husk  that  may  wound  at  first,  many  delight- 
ful, simple  and  gentle  human  qualities.  The  Englishman  will  be  the 
last  man  to  wear  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve,  I  imagine.  I  think  it  is  on 
account  of  his  extreme  sensitiveness  that  he  seems  cold,  and  that  it  is 
on  account  of  his  keenly  sympathetic  understanding  of  his  fellowmen 
that  he  is  sensitive.  Sensitive  men  are  notoriously  shy,  and  oftentimes 
incur  the  reproach  of  priggishness  or  snobbishness  when  the  truth  of  the 
matter  is  that  they  are  very  simple  and  companionable.  They  were 
very  likely  to  be  taken  by  storm  by  breezy  American  manners ;  for  such 
they  supposed  were  typically  American,  and  they  like  to  see  men  live 
up  to  the  characters  they  are  assumed,  from  their  reading,  to  have.  But 
when  they  found  in  some  Americans  the  same  qualities  they  themselves 
possessed  they  were  somewhat  nonplussed  and  reserved.     Given  time 


67 


and  real  understanding  and  they  became  the  most  companionable  of 
men.  And  English  hospitality,  when  one  has  deserved  it,  is  a  delight- 
ful experience.  It  is  not  their  aim  to  entertain  you  in  their  homes ;  they 
are  not  making  a  show  of  you  to  the  neighbors,  nor  are  they  over- 
whelming you  with  a  schedule  of  events  in  your  honour.  They  have 
too  keen  a  sense  of  your  individuality  and  of  its  desires  and  of  its  right 
to  its  own  expression  to  bury  it  under  an  avalanche  of  well-meant  but 
inept  intentions.  They  do  to  you  as  they  would  be  done  by.  You  arc 
one  of  the  family,  subject  to  its  rules,  expected  to  observe  its  customs, 
and  with  each  member's  right  to  spend  his  time  as  he  pleases.  It  may 
seem  lacking  in  cordiality ;  but  I  am  sure  it  is  not  lacking  in  fine  under- 
standing. I  will  own  that  to  a  Westerner  it  is  difficult  to  get  this  view- 
point. It  took  many  of  us  Americans  all  the  three  years  to  get  it.  For 
we  expect  a  man  to  reveal  the  innermost  secrets  of  his  personality  in 
a  handshake.  An  Englishman  knows  that  it  cannot  be  done.  He  is 
willing  to  bide  his  time  both  to  understand  and  to  be  understood;  but 
he  is  all  the  time  extremely  anxious  to  know.  I  came  to  like  this  too, 
very  much. 

I  have  now  touched  upon  several  aspects  of  English  life  and  man- 
ners as  they  favourable  impressed  me.  There  is  another  side  of  the 
picture ;  and  that  I  shall  describe  next. 

Along  with  my  idyllic  picture  of  the  English  landscape  I  associate 
hideous  pictures  of  slum  life  in  cities.  When  I  was  a  school-boy  I  read 
Dickens  with  great  pleasure.  I  used  to  wonder  what  strange  imagina- 
tion possessed  the  artist  who  illustrated  him;  for  it  was  incredible  to 
me  that  anywhere  in  the  world  such  miserable  people  could  live,  in 
such  disreputable  surroundings.  One  day  soon  after  my  arrival  in 
Oxford  I  wandered  into  a  part  of  the  town  called,  ironically  enough. 
Paradise  Lane,  and  there  I  saw  a  scene  in  front  of  a  "pub"  which  was 
so  vividly  reminiscent  of  Dickens  and  his  impossible  illustrator  that  1 
cried  out  in  astonishment  at  the  truth  of  both.  There  was  actually  such 
abject  wretchedness  in  England;  there  were  actually  such  caricatures 
of  humanity  living  there.  This  impression  was  repeated  in  every  town 
I  visited ;  and  in  London  intensified  and  ^;irtensified,  if  I  may  coin  the 
word.  That  there  should  be  so  foul  a  blot  on  so  fair  a  landscape  is  one 
thing  for  which  I  have  never  forgiven  England.  Well  might  Ruskin 
and  Carlyle,  and  Arnold  and  Newman,  and  Morris  and  Mill,  and  all 
the  liberal  and  forward-looking  men  of  the  late  nineteenth  century  cry 
out  against  this  horrible  desecration  of  a  great  country. 

A  reflex  expression  of  this  misery  was  to  be  seen  in  the  obsequi- 
ousness of  servants  everywhere.  The  attitude  of  the  man  who  looked 
after  my  wants  in  college  was  such  that  it  made  me  rage  against  a  caste 

S3 


system  if  it  could  make  such  things  of  men.  The  manner  of  young 
boys  just  up  from  school  in  addressing  venerable  servants  was  intoler- 
able. I  tried  to  make  the  man  wrho  served  my  staircase  feel  that  I  re- 
garded him  as  a  human  being  of  about  the  same  stuff  as  myself  only  to 
discover  that  he  thought  me  a  fool  and  cheated  me  out  of  all  he  could 
possibly  lay  his  hands  on.  Some  experiences  of  this  kind  taught  me 
that  I  had  better  acquiesce  in  the  social  system  as  I  found  it,  wfith  such 
good  graces  as  I  could  command. 

My  first  week  in  college  was  a  trying  experience.  I  remember  yet 
how  each  night  after  dinner  with  a  few  men  who  were  present  so  eager- 
ly, I  went  back  to  my  rooms  and  jotted  down  a  note  in  my  diary  to  the 
effect  that  I  had  just  returned  from  another  session  in  the  refrigerator. 
So  distant  and  reserved,  and  uncommunicable  a  lot  of  men  I  have  nev- 
er since  met.  And  from  that  time  till  the  end  of  the  first  term  I  had  a 
series  of  most  disagreeable  experiences  with  Englishmen.  I  might  be 
invited  out  to  breakfast  or  tea  or  lunch  with  an  upperclassman  and 
after  leaving  his  room,  might  meet  him  in  the  quad  and  be  given  the 
"cut  direct"  by  him.  I  might  spend  a  pleasant  evening  talking  with  a  few 
freshmen  in  my  room  and  have  them  ignore  me  the  next  day.  I  might 
get  the  greeting  "hello"  from  a  man  in  the  morning  and  pass  him  again 
during  the  day  several  times  without  even  being  noticed  by  him.  These 
were  disagreeable  experiences.  Finally  I  asked  a  man  with  whom  I  had 
come  to  feel  somewhat  at  home,  what  was  the  reason  for  such  behavior. 
He  said  that  upperclassmen  never  recognized  freshmen  except  when 
they  were  their  hosts  at  some  function  in  their  rooms.  And  further,  he 
said  that  it  was  absurd  to  be  always  saying  "hello"  to  men  you  were 
meeting  repeatedly  during  the  day.  When  you  greeted  a  man  in  the 
morning  that  ought  to  be  enough  for  the  day.  After  all,  that  is  ex- 
cellent commonsense,  thought  I ;  and  cut  men  regularly  without  a  second 
thought.    It  is  sensible  enough  from  their  standpoint. 

My  first  impressions  of  the  English  people  were  distinctly  unfavor- 
able. I  thought  them  cold,  distant,  indifferent,  and  inaccessible.  1 
seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  curiosity  for  their  inspection  in  a  casual  way.  I 
felt  that  I  was  some  rare  bird  on  exhibition.  (I  was  one  of  the  first 
American  Rhodes  Scholars  in  Exeter  College).  It  was  all  very  irk- 
some. 

These  first  unpleasant  impressions  led  me  directly  to  reflect  on  the 
evils  of  classes  in  a  population.  I  learned  what  it  meant  to  be  a  mem- 
ber of  the  upper  class,  or  the  middle  class,  or  the  lower  classes.  It  was 
repugnant  to  one's  Americanism.  I  made  inquiries  about  the  system. 
I  asked  one  of  my  best  friends  why  Mr.  So-and-So  was  left  out  of 
things  in  the  freshman  class.    He  said  that  the  boy  was  not  a  gentle- 

69 


man.  That  seemed  strange ;  for  he  was  one  of  the  best-mannered  men 
in  the  year,  according  to  my  judgment.  Then  I  learned  that  he  was  no 
gentleman  because  his  father  was  an  ironmonger,  that  is  a  hardware 
merchant,  obviously  wealthy,  to  be  able  to  send  a  son  to  Oxford.  That 
interested  me  in  finding  out  what  constituted  a  gentleman.  Well,  he 
said,  "This  man's  son  might  be  a  gentleman;  certainly  his  grandson 
would  be."  He  himself,  however,  had  no  chance;  for  he  was  not  far 
enough  removed  from  the  earning  of  money  by  trade.  This  was  illum- 
inating to  me.  My  informant  was  a  poor  country  parson's  son,  and,  I 
suppose,  the  most  democratic  man  in  the  college. 

Of  a  similar  kind  with  this  was  the  attitude  toward  service  in  the 
church  and  the  army.  Both  professions  seemed  to  be  regarded  as  per- 
quisites of  the  upper  classes.  A  good  comfortable  living  in  the  country 
offered  an  easy  berth  for  one  who  was  not  too  ambitious.  There  was 
no  hint  of  the  desire  to  enter  a  life  of  human  serviceableness  in  choos- 
ing the  ministry.  It  was  rather  like  the  attitude  taken  by  certain  chron- 
ic officeholders  in  our  country.  The  country  owes  them  a  job,  they 
seem  to  think.  Their  class  entitles  them  to  an  easy  living  in  the  church. 
As  for  the  army  and  the  navy,  especially  the  army,  that  too  is  a  service 
reserved  for  the  wealthy  or  the  privileged.  The  son  who  doesn't  seem 
to  fit  anywhere  may  have  a  commission  purchased  for  him  in  the  army. 
That  gives  a  curious  impression  of  what  army  service  is  considered  to 
be.    It  seems  to  be  rather  social  than  military  in  the  stricter  sense. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  University  is  in  the  main  conservative. 
There  is  a  tendency  to  dry  down  the  things  which  the  modern  world  is 
doing  and  to  find  all  wisdom  crystallized  in  the  ancients.  The  liberal 
statesman  in  England  in  my  time  were  rather  cordially  hated  in  univer- 
sity circles.    Lloyd  George  was  an  object  of  universal  aversion. 

Oxford,  I  must  admit,  is  an  aristocratic  university.  It  offers  no 
opportunity  to  the  workingman  or  his  son.  A  man  could  not  work  his 
way  through  the  university,  as  he  might  work  his  way  through  an 
American  college.  They  have  a  caste  of  servants  who  do  the  very  work 
that  students  would  be  allowed  to  do  here.  It  would  be  impossible  for 
a  student  to  do  this  work.  He  would  be  ostracized,  and  life  made  a 
burden  for  him.  Hardy  in  Jude  the  Obscure  has  made  a  keen  study  of 
the  university's  attitude  on  this  question,  and  it  is  a  highly  unflattering 
picture.     These  are  the  unpleasant  impressions  that  I  remember  best. 

If  there  seems  to  be  an  inconsistency  betv/een  some  of  these  and 
some  of  the  former  pleasant  impressions,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that 
I  am  recording  alf  impressions,  some  of  which  were  rectified  by  time. 

I  shall  now  turn  to  Germany,  and  give  an  account  of  my  exper- 
iences there,  beginning,  as  in  the  case  of  England,  with  the  favorable. 


70 


I  left  England  with  great  relief  to  spend  my  first  Christmas  at 
Heidelberg.  The  five  weeks  I  spent  there  are  among  the  most  agreeable 
of  my  memories  of  foreign  travel.  I  discovered  here  an  attitude  dia- 
metrically different  from  that  of  the  English — friendly,  interested,  hap- 
py, prosperous,  generous.  It  was  as  if  they  were  always  eager  to  get 
acquainted  with  the  stranger,  to  show  him  their  sights,  to  inform  him 
about  the  curiosities  of  their  life  and  customs,  to  teach  him  the  lan- 
guage and  learn  his  in  turn,  to  show  him  with  an  almost  childish  joy 
how  well  informed  they  were  about  the  life  of  his  own  country.  It  is 
a  manner  that  is  powerfully  attractive  to  the  lonely  American.  It  is 
more  like  the  American  than  different,  I  think,  in  most  ways.  At 
Christmas  the  stranger  is  taken  into  the  family  celebration  and  shares 
the  joys  of  the  time.  The  German  loves  his  cafes  and  restaurants. 
They  give  him  so  good  an  opportunity  to  indulge  in  that  social  life  that 
he  values.  To  visit  one  of  these  was  to  be  taken  into  comradeship  by 
all  present.  Theirs  is  the  hearty,  unaffected,  perhaps  boisterous,  hos- 
pitality of  simple  folk.  Wherever  I  found  simple  German  people,  there 
I  found  the  same  geniality  and  interest  and  kindliness — in  Berlin,  in 
Dresden,  in  Munich,  always  the  same.  In  Dresden  the  Saxons  are  a 
trifle  more  formal,  but  extremely  fond  of  their  art  and  opera;  and  in- 
clined to  chide  the  Prussians.  In  Munich  there  is  a  trifle  more  color 
and  vivacity,  more  artistic  natures;  and  the  same  dislike  of  the  Prus- 
sians. That  orderliness  that  I  mentioned  as  characteristic  of  the  Eng- 
lish landscape  was  in  Germany  extended  to  human  life  as  well.  I  saw 
none  of  those  hideous  evidences  of  poverty  and  distress  that  were  so 
frequent  in  England ;  nor  were  unemployed  men  loitering  on  the  streets. 
There  was  more  of  an  air  of  contentment  and  prosperity;  all  seemed 
well-clad  and  well-fed.  I  think  this  impressed  me  more  favorably  than 
anything  else  in  Germany  when  I  contrasted  it  with  parallel  English 
sights.  There  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  American  note  in  the  rather  ex- 
hilarating business  atmosphere  of  the  quaint,  old-world  setting.  Things 
were  up-to-date,  scientific,  smart,  the  very  latest.  There  was  a  more 
cordial  receptiveness  toward  American  invention  in  Germany  than  in 
England. 

The  sense  of  civic  pride  was  highly  developed.  City  utilities  were 
splendidly  administered.  Street  railway  systems,  surface,  underground, 
and  elevated,  were  highly  developed.  Parks,  zoos,  museums,  galleries, 
theatres,  operas,  were  arranged  to  give  the  maximum  of  service  and 
comfort  and  pleasure.  Picnic  grounds  and  prospect  towers  were  to 
be  found  in  the  environs  of  every  town.  It  was  astonishing  to  me  what 
pains  had  been  taken  to  exploit  the  possibilities  of  wholesome  amuse- 
ment in  town  and  country.    Life  was  clearly  well  cared  for. 

71 


The  German  people  seem  actually  to  have  some  real  knowledge  and 
understanding  of  art.  Pictures,  plays,  operas,  symphonies — the  very 
streetsweeper  seemed  to  knovf  them.  To  stand  in  line  w^aiting  for 
tickets  at  the  Royal  Opera  of  a  Sunday  morning,  along  with  scrub- 
women and  cabdrivers,  and  listen  to  their  intelligent  and  discriminating 
criticism  of  the  best  music  would  be  a  rare  experience,  I  think  you  will 
admit.  To  hear  Wagner  sung  by  Destinn  for  twenty-five  cents ;  to  hear 
Joachim  at  the  Berlin  symphony  for  fifteen  cents;  these  are  great  satis- 
factions (at  prices  which  are  decidedly  un-American.) 

These  details  must  suffice  to  indicate  what  impression  German  life 
made  upon  me.  That  I  have  not  included  institutions  among  the  things 
impressing  me  favorably  is  due  to  the  fact  that  I  was  continually  mov- 
ing about  and  not  quietly  studying  such  things  as  in  England. 

Many  of  the  impressions  I  have  mentioned  above  were  from  Berlin. 
But  in  general  I  found  Berlin  to  be  more  like  an  American  city  than 
a  typical  European  city.  And  I  did  not  care  so  much  for  that  in 
Europe.  It  was  glaringly  new,  it  was  garish,  it  was  boastful,  it  was  of 
the  mushroom  variety  of  city  growth ;  and  it  was  infested  with  soldiers. 
Great  barracks  loomed  up  in  the  midst  of  the  city.  Here  is  a  list  of 
them  in  part:  The  Cuirassier  Guards,  the  Dragoons,  the  Emp.  Alex- 
ander, the  Emp.  Franz,  the  Field  Artillery,  the  First  Foot,  the  Fusiliers, 
the  Gardes  du  corps,  the  Hussar,  the  Queen  Augusta,  the  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, the  Railway  Regiments,  the  Third  Foot,  the  Train  Corps,  the 
Uhlans.  Soldiers  were  daily  marching  out  to  drill  and  back,  parading, 
standing  guard-mount,  lounging  along  the  avenues  and  parks,  crowding 
the  public  places.  I  have  no  hatred  of  the  common  soldier ;  he  comes 
from  the  simple  stock  that  I  have  tried  to  praise  above,  as  the  finest 
among  men.  But  at  Berlin  I  conceived  a  hatred  for  militarism  that  will 
not  down ;  and  that  principally  on  account  of  the  Prussian  officer  type, 
as  he  is  seen  in  his  perfection.  Let  me  attempt  a  composite  picture  of 
him.  A  tall,  broad-shouldered,  heavy- jawed,  bull-necked,  slightly  fat 
man,  dressed  with  the  immaculate  affectation  of  the  perfect  fop,  star- 
ing insultingly  at  every  woman,  and  insolently  at  every  mere  man, 
striding  with  Olympian  disdain  through  the  mean  workaday  world- 
such  I  see  him  again.  Time  and  time  again  I  have  had  to  take  to  the 
street  to  let  him  have  the  entire  sidewalk.  All  my  friends  had  done  the 
same.  Whenever  we  were  met  together  and  an  officer  was  observed, 
then  and  there  might  be  heard  vigorous  language — and  picturesque,  in 
description  of  militarism.  For  arrogance,  superciliousness,  affectation, 
insolence,  brutality,  commend  me  to  the  Prussian  officer.  And  he  is  an 
elegant  dandy  withal.  I  saw  ten  German  officers  wearing  monocles,  to 
one  Englishman.    Yet  we  picture  the  English  fop  as  affecting  the  single 


72 


eye  glass.  When  we  speak  of  militarism  we  are  in  the  realm  of  sinister 
suggestions.  There  were  many  hospitals  for  diseases  of  women  in  Ber- 
lin. The  bookshops  were  always  making  prominent  displays  of  books 
on  sexual  questions  and  prostitution.  A  friend  of  mine  Secame  ac- 
quainted with  a  pleasant  young  officer  who  boasted  of  his  valor  in  cer- 
tain encounters,  (in  the  parks  and  other  places  of  public  gatherings). 
He  kept  a  record  covering  all  the  pages  of  a  pocket  memorandum  of 
his  triumphs.  I  don't  remember  how  many  more  than  a  hundred  girls 
he  had  seduced;  he  was  no  patronizer  of  prostitutes.  He  was  one  of 
about  60,000  soldiers  in  Berlin  at  that  time.    This  is  a  vivid  impression. 

There  was  militarism  everywhere  in  Germany,  of  course;  but  no- 
where else  did  I  get  so  unfavorable  an  impression  of  it  as  in  Berlin. 
In  Dresden  there  were  soldiers  everywhere ;  but  the  people  spoke  their 
dislike  of  Prussia.  In  Munich  there  were  soldiers  everywhere;  they 
spoke  their  dislike  of  Prussia.  And  I  believe  what  I  saw  in  Berlin 
was  the  reason  why.  In  Munich,  pleasant  place  as  it  is;  most  delight- 
ful of  all  German  cities  to  me,  I  recorded  a  scene  that  lies  deep-graven 
on  my  memory.  Returning  late  one  night  to  my  lodgings  which  were 
near  one  of  the  great  barracks  of  the  city  I  saw  a  gang  of  women  at 
work  unloading  lumber  from  a  number  of  wagons  just  under  the  walls 
of  the  barracks.  It  might  be  possible  that  some  of  the  youth  snoring 
in  their  bunks  above  were  the  sons  of  those  women  toiling  dully  through 
the  night.  Or  if  not  of  these,  of  other  women  drudging  at  hard  manual 
labor.  For  one  saw  gangs  of  them  laying  water  mains,  cleaning  sewers, 
sweeping  streets.  In  Berlin  there  was  one  clear  juxtaposition  of  cause 
and  effect;  here,  another.  I  prefer  the  Munich  picture;  but  I  reject 
both. 

One  may  find  the  effects  of  a  system  like  this  in  many  unexpected 
places  when  one's  attention  is  called  to  it.  Now  I  noticed  the  German 
policemen  always  wore  regular  military  helmets,  and  carried  swords. 
Of  what  use  is  a  military  helmet  and  a  sword  to  a  policeman?  The 
London  bobby  carries  no  arms  at  all.  He  is  the  very  pink  of  courtesy. 
Train  officials  all  wore  military  uniform.  Think  of  a  fireman  pitching 
coal  into  the  firebox,  dressed  in  a  military  blouse  with  high  collar,  of 
brakemen  on  the  trains  similarly  dressed,  of  all  these  persons  standing 
rigidly  at  attention  and  saluting  a  stationmaster  on  arriving  at  or  leav- 
ing a  station.    Why  are  such  manners  needed? 

When  one  has  asked  why  it  is  that  almost  all  the  men  of  higher 
class  in  Germany  bear  ugly  scars  across  their  faces,  he  is  told  that  it  is 
merely  a  university  custom.  Men  challenge  each  other  to  duels  in  a 
friendly  way,  and  they  fight  a  duel,  just  as  we  fight  a  football  game,  to 
develop  nerve  and  courage  and  coolness,  and  honor.    One  suspects  that 

7S 


it  is  for  still  another  purpose.  The  duel  is  still  a  very  live  institution, 
in  spite  of  this  imitation  of  it  in  the  universities,  which  leaves  its  scars 
upon  the  faces  of  youth  to  be  worn  with  the  pride  one  feels  here  some- 
times in  a  fraternity  pin.  Probably  it  is  a  potent  aid  in  keeping  alive  the 
military  tradition  with  its  joy  in  flashing  swords  and  physical  courage. 

With  this  record  I  shall  end  my  account  of  clear  memories.  If  I 
had  the  time,  and  you  the  inclination  to  listen  further,  I  might  ransack 
odd  corners  and  bring  to  light  many  other  memories;  but  what  I  have 
here  written  will  serve  the  purpose  with  which  I  set  out. 

This  record  of  likes  and  dislikes  may  seem  to  be  balanced ;  when  1 
look  at  it  as  I  have  it  written  here  it  is  fairly  evenly  balanced.  But 
when  the  impulses  to  examination,  which  the  impression  set  in  motion, 
were  followed  and  considered  by  the  intellect,  the  whole  mass  has  cry- 
stallized into  a  pro-English  basis.  Permeating  my  impressions  of  Eng- 
land is  a  sense  of  love  of  home.  The  Englishman's  house  is  his  castle. 
For  this  house  he  will  fight,  even  against  his  own  kin.  As  he  has  ad- 
vanced out  of  the  primitive  tribal  antagonisms  into  the  national  unified 
consciousness,  he  has  clung  to  his  right  to  defend  his  own.  It  seems 
to  me  that  it  is  out  of  this  sturdy  insistence  on  his  rights  that  freedom 
has  made  consistent  gains  in  English  life  from  Magna  Carta  down.  He 
may  have  been  too  individualistic  at  times.  He  may  have  lost  sight  of 
other  individuals'  rights  at  times.  But  those  other  individuals  have 
banded  together  to  defend  their  individualities  by  military  or  political 
struggle,  and  the  resulting  compromise  has  been  a  real  gain  in  freedom. 
You  can  easily  see  in  this  why  the  Englishman  has  relied  upon  the  in- 
stinct to  guide  him ;  has  believed  that  the  maintenance  by  individuals  of 
their  rights  will  in  the  end  make  for  the  best  for  all.  Of  later  years  I 
believe  that  he  has  been  able  to  read  into  other  men  more  of  his  own 
desires  to  live  his  own  individual  existence,  and  that  therefore  he  has 
become  more  accessible  to  the  arguments  of  socialism  than  he  had  been 
before  under  too  insistently  laissez  faire  policy.  But  his  socialism  is 
still  an  individualistic  one ;  it  is  decidedly  not  a  rigid  regimentation  of 
the  whole  social  group  determined  outside  his  own  will.  He  would 
rather  volunteer  for  service  to  the  state  (even  though  that  state  is  to 
serve  him  ultimately)  than  have  his  services  ordered  from  him  by  his 
superiors  over  whom  he  may  have  no  control.  That  he  has  come  to 
this  respect  for  the  other  individual,  and  the  willingness  to  help  him  live 
his  own  life  unhindered,  is  revealed  most  strikingly  to  me  in  the  British 
grant  of  autonomy  to  the  South  African  Republic  after  the  Boer  war. 
I  condemn  the  Boer  war;  but  I  think  liberal  thought  in  England, 
returned  into  power  by  the  bungling  Tory  conduct  of  that  war, 
has  vindicated  the  British  conception  of  Empire  in  the  eyes  of  the  world 

74 


by  its  attempt  to  make  good  for  the  crime.  Lloyd  George  in  his  brave 
denunciation  of  the  Boer  war  at  peril  of  his  life  is  an  example  of  the 
individualistic  sympathy  with  others  that  I  have  in  mind,  and  he  is  an- 
other in  a  long  list  of  English  champions  of  freedom,  many  of  whom 
are  now  nobly  resisting  the  encroachment  of  what  they  fear  may  be- 
come a  tyranny  upon  English  freedom,  either  by  a  silent  veto  or  by  ac- 
tive propaganda.  Karl  Liebknecht  in  Germany  is  such  another,  and  all 
honor  is  due  him  for  the  greater  odds  he  is  facing  in  a  land  of  auto- 
cratic power.  Out  of  the  impression  of  "fair  play"  in  games,  in  the 
athletic  system,  in  the  university  system  I  find  rising  what  in  a  political 
sense  is  the  instinct  for  freedom.  It  is  rooted  in  the  habits  of  the 
people,  and  will  get  its  expression  sooner  or  later.  In  proportion  as  the 
democracy  functions  directly,  freedom  is  attained,  in  industrial  life  as 
well  as  in  the  political.  Therefore  I  have  come  to  believe  that  England 
represents  in  this  war  the  democratic  aspirations  of  the  world.  If 
liberal  statesmen  have  the  helm  they  will  not  be  disappointed.  Of  her 
it  can  be  said  as  Pericles  spoke  of  Athens  in  his  wonderful  Funeral 
Speech,  "Our  military  training  is  different  from  our  opponents.  The 
gates  of  our  city  are  flung  open  to  the  world.  We  practise  no  periodi- 
cal deportations,  nor  do  we  prevent  our  visitors  from  observing  or  dis- 
covering what  an  enemy  might  usefully  apply  to  his  own  purposes. 
For  our  trust  is  not  in  the  devices  of  material  equipment,  but  in  our 
good  spirits  for  battle."  And  again,  "If  we  choose  to  face  danger  with 
an  easy  mind  rather  than  after  a  rigorous  training,  and  to  trust  rather 
in  native  manliness  than  state-made  courage,  the  advantage  lies  with 
us;  for  we  are  spared  all  the  weariness  of  practising  for  future  hard- 
ships, and  when  we  find  ourselves  amongst  them  we  are  as  brave  as 
our  plodding  rivals."  The  Athenian  commonwealth  is  more  or  less  con- 
sciously the  model  of  English  political  thinking.  And  so  Sparta  may  be 
regarded  as  the  model  of  the  German,  modified  by  the  Roman — both 
primarily  military.  One  is  a  government  of  distrust ;  the  other  of  con- 
fidence, in  men. 

Some  of  you  may  wonder  why  I  have  not  a  kind  word  to  say  for 
Germany.  If  my  impressions  of  Germany  did  not  speak  clearly  enough, 
then  I  shall  sum  them  up.  For  the  German  people,  the  common  people, 
I  have,  as  I  had,  the  highest  regard  and  kindliest  feelings.  For  the 
system  under  which  they  live  I  have  a  hatred  T  cannot  overcome.  Some 
say  one  cannot  distinguish  between  a  people  and  the  system  under  which 
they  live.  I  think  one  can.  I  think  one  can  in  the  case  of  Germany. 
The  patriots  who  were  driven  out  early  in  the  last  century,  and  the 
many  high-spirited  Germans  who  sought  asylum  from  military  service 
in  their  own  fatherland,  as  colonists  to  the  United  States,  are  of  the 


76 


same  stuff  as  the  political  idealists  who  have  made  England  what  it  is. 
Carl  Schurz  is  a  noble  example  of  the  type.  In  England  the  system 
under  which  they  lived  would  in  time  have  had  to  yield  to  their  struggle 
for  freedom ;  the  system  in  Germany  did  not  yield ;  so  they  left ;  and  the 
system  remained.  I  cannot  be  persuaded  that  militarism  as  it  has  grown 
up  to  be  a  menace  to  the  peace  of  Europe  and  the  world  was  a  neces- 
sary thing.  Germany's  last  several  wars  surely  were  not  wars  of  self- 
defense.  After  the  crushing  defeat  of  France  what  was  the  need  of 
increasing  military  preparation  ?  I  cannot  believe  that  a  people,  through 
their  elected  delegates,  placed  this  burden  upon  themselves.  It  must 
have  been  placed  upon  them  by  their  masters.  It  is  hard  enough  for 
people  who  have  democratic  governments  to  get  rid  of  masters;  how 
much  more  difficult  for  those  under  monarchical  forms?  Militarism 
must  be  a  burden  placed  from  above.  So  I  think  one  can  distinguish 
between  a  people  and  the  system  under  which  they  live. 

Obviously  since  I  find  so  little  to  choose  between  peoples  it  must 
be  a  system  that  I  execrate,  an  autocratic,  feudal,  military  system, 
which  shows,  I  admit,  a  very  attractive  face  to  the  world  in  peace  times, 
with  its  methodical  humanitarianism,  its  well-nurtured  prosperity,  its 
happiness,  its  art,  aiyl  science,  and  culture ;  but  which  is  now  in  war  time 
the  repulsive  thing  I  once  saw  in  Berlin.  So  far  as  this  war  is  con- 
cerned, then,  it  is  to  me  only  a  war  between  systems,  between  democracy 
and  autocracy,  between  the  free  West  and  the  fettered  East.  And  if 
you  are  inclined  to  ask,  "But  what  of  Russia?"  the  answer  must  be 
that  if  the  West  wins,  Russia  becomes  democratized;  if  the  East,  she 
remains  the  military  autocracy  she  is.  Russia  does  not  invalidate  the 
thesis  that  it  is  a  war  between  democracy  and  autocracy. 

I  have  more  faith  in  a  democracy,  governed  by  a  despotic  few,  for 
the  time  being  (as  England  may  be  ruled  today),  than  in  any  undemo- 
cratic system  over  however  kindly  and  hospitable  a  people ;  for  a  demo- 
cratic people  can,  and  usually  do,  get  control  of  their  government  in 
time.  But  this  is  almost  impossible  in  a  monarchy.  And  it  is  sys- 
tems that  make  war,  not  people.  The  analogy  that  I  have  once  referred 
to  has  a  peculiarly  significant  relevance  now;  for  it  calls  to  mind  that 
in  the  contest  between  the  naval  empire  of  Athens,  with  its  freedom 
loving  spirit,  and  the  inland  Sparta  with  its  military  government,  Ath- 
ens was  the  loser,  and  that  from  the  downfall  of  Athens  dates  the  decay 
of  that  glorious  Greek  civilization  which  has  been  the  inspiration  of  in- 
telligent lovers  of  freedom  and  beauty  everywhere,  from  that  day  to 
this.  History,  some  say,  repeats  herself.  Are  we  then  to  see  the  island 
naval  empire  of  Great  Britain,  mother  and  nurse  of  democracies,  de- 
stroyed in  this  war?    Or  are  those  skeptics  who  say  that  history  never 


76 


repeats  herself  to  be  upheld  by  the  event?  And  is  democracy  to  have 
won  then  its  last  war  in  the  long  upward  struggle  against  dynastic  rule  ? 
Athens  was  destroyed,  not  I  believe,  because  it  was  a  democracy,  but 
because  it  could  not  federate  its  empire,  had  it  desired  to  do  so.  Eng- 
land seems  to  have  solved  that  problem;  it  has  become  under  the  im- 
petus of  the  war  virtually  a  federated  empire.  So  vast  a  federation  as 
the  British,  with  a  free  India  and  a  free  Ireland,  like  all  the  rest  of  the 
colonies,  united  in  friendship,  if  not  by  federation,  with  that  other  vast 
federal  government,  the  United  States,  it  seems  to  me,  is  the  irresistible 
beginning  of  that  world  federation  of  the  poets'  dreams.  That  is  what 
liberal  men  the  world  over  believe  is  possible,  if  democracy  wins  in  this 
war.    That  is  why  I  sympathize  with  England. 


77 


DEMOCRACY  IN  CRITICISM 


79 


DEMOCRACY  IN  CRITICISM 

I  have  a  learned  and  ingenious  friend,  who  finds  time,  amid  the  claims 
of  his  busy  profession,  to  pursue  with  a  commendable  zeal  the  forma- 
tion of  final  judgments  upon  literary  questions.  I  suppose  this  zeal  of 
my  friend's  is  commendable;  for  we  come  to  regard  untiring  industry 
in  the  pursuit  of  an  object,  however  mistaken  it  may  often  be,  as  hav- 
ing something  religious  about  it.  In  this  case  it  manifests  itself  with  a 
uniform  persistency,  such  that,  whenever  I  become  aware  of  an  ap- 
proaching conversation  with  my  friend,  I  am  able  to  rehearse  in  ad- 
vance the  conversation  which  we  are  about  to  have.  Now  such  fore- 
knowledge may  be  a  delight  to  a  mind  of  omniscient  quality,  but  for 
me,  with  my  mortal  limitations,  it  holds  no  delights;  for  me  there  is 
no  delight  in  conversation  equal  to  the  unexpectedness  of  it,  the  arbi- 
trariness of  it,  the  turning  this  way  or  that  as  it  list.  The  conversation 
which  I  am  thus  about  to  have  proceeds  as  follows,  my  friend  being 
the  questioner: 

"How  do  you  determine  whether  literature  is  good  or  bad  ?" 

"Very  simply.    What  I  like  is  good ;  what  I  don't  like  is  bad." 

"That's  all  very  well  for  you ;  but  how  am  I  to  determine  for  my- 
self?" 

"My  dear  friend,  you  have  likes  and  dislikes  too,  surely.  It  re- 
quires no  special  dispensation  to  have  them." 

"But  I  am  in  doubt  about  my  judgments  when  I  consult  merely 
my  own  likes  and  dislikes.  I  should  enjoy  so  much  the  more  keenly 
if  I  knew  that  I  enjoyed  correctly." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  your  literary  pleasures  are  like  some 
people's  clothes — uncomfortable  unless  they  are  what  is  called  correct ; 
or  that  they  ought  to  be  so  ?" 

"That's  getting  near  it  in  some  ways,  if  you  interpret  the  analogy 
correctly.  I  know  what  is  'correct'  in  clothes,  for  there  are  authori- 
ties, and  by  following  these  I  enjoy  my  clothes  the  more.  Now  how 
am  I  to  knok  equally  as  unmistakably  what  I  should  enjoy  in  litera- 
ture?" 

"Why  worry  about  the  rightfulness  of  your  enjoyment,  so  long 
as  it  is  not  ethically  questionable?" 

"I  believe  in  order  and  method  in  everything.  I  want  to  find  the 
scientific  method  of  doing  things.  I  believe  in  clearness,  definiteness, 
precision.    All  knowledge  should  be  systematized." 

81 


"What  you  want  then  is  some  infalHble  method  for  determining 
whether  a  book  is  good  or  bad." 

"Yes,  that's  about  it.  My  friends  and  I  read  a  good  deal  together. 
When  we  have  read  a  book  we  Hke  to  discuss  it  and  tell  each  other 
what  we  find  agreeable  or  otherwise  in  it.  But  we  are  often  in  doubt 
about  our  judgments,  and  about  whether  we  ought  to  have  liked  it.  We 
should  like  to  be  able  to  refer  to  some  authority  to  decide  the  matter 
for  us;  we  should  like  to  have  some  criteria  to  apply  to  the  work  to 
measure  its  artistic  or  aesthetic  value." 

"Let  me  understand  you.  When  you  say  that  you  want  some 
method  for  determining  whether  a  book  is  good  or  bad,  I  wonder  what 
you  mean  by  'good'  or  'bad'." 

"  I  mean  by  'good'  of  course  that  it  fulfills  the  requirements  of  the 
canons  which  have  been  discovered  by  scientific  investigation  to  apply 
in  literary  criticism,  and  the  reverse  in  the  case  of  the  'bad'  book." 

"What  if  you  and  your  friends  should  have  enjoyed  the  deepest 
pleasure  in  reading  a  book  and  then  should  discover  later  by  the  ap- 
plication of  such  criteria  that  your  enjoyment  had  been  illicit,  as  it 
were,  what  then,  would  you  repudiate  your  enjoyment  as  something 
reprehensible  ?" 

"It  might  be  likened  to  a  youthful  peccadillo  which  maturer  wisdom 
would  have  guarded  us  against  committing.  Knowing  that  that  sort 
of  thing  was  not  right  we  should  not  enjoy  it  thereafter." 

"I  see  that  you  would  exercise  the  virtue  of  obedience  in  this  as 
if  it  were  a  military  matter.  Then  in  the  case  of  the  book  you  found 
enjoyable  and,  upon  examination,  conformable  to  the  canons,  you  would 
not  only  have  the  enjoyment  of  the  book  but  in  addition  the  enjoyment 
of  the  enjoyment.  Like  a  boy  who  enjoyed  doing  the  chores  for  once, 
and  afterwards  the  praise  of  his  mother  for  having  done  them  joy- 
ously." 

"Well — yes.    In  a  crude  way  that  represents  it." 

"Is  there  any  difference  between  these  two  kinds  of  enjoyment? 
Is  not  that  primary  enjoyment  which  you  get  from  a  book  when  you 
are  quite  unconscious  of  its  orthodoxy  the  enjoyment  that  you  ought 
to  get  out  of  a  book,  or  out  of  anything  else  beautiful?  That  second 
enjoyment,  which  you  experienced  when  you  found  your  judgment 
ratified,  is  that  not  rather  merely  vanity?  You  find  that  your  taste  in 
literature  is  getting  to  coincide  with  that  of  the  critic." 

"Well,  suppose  I  admit  that  the  primary  pleasure  is  the  only  legit- 
imate one  to  be  derived  from  literature,  and  that  the  pleasure  experi- 
enced in  discovering  the  orthodoxy  of  a  book  is  secondary  or  of  in- 
ferior quality,  am  I  not  justified  in  thinking  that  my  pleasure  will  be 

82 


the  keener  if  I  know  why  I  have  the  pleasure?  If,  as  I  read  and  enjoy, 
I  am  able  to  understand  my  enjoyment,  as  it  were,  would  not  that  be 
a  desirable  thing?  When  I  discuss  a  book  with  my  friends,  would  it 
not  add  to  our  pleasure  to  be  able  to  analyze  it,  and  explain  it?  When 
I  discuss  anything,  I  like  to  have  clear  notions  of  what  we  are  dis- 
cussing." 

"That  puts  the  question  on  another  basis,  of  course.  It  is  not 
canons  of  criticism  you  want  now,  by  which  to  establish  your  ortho- 
doxy ;  but  you  justify  your  pleasure,  regardless  of  criticism ;  you  main- 
tain its  integrity;  and  want  instead  of  criticism,  scientific  analysis  of 
3'our  pleasure,  is  that  it?" 

"Yes,  as  I  said  before,  I  am  a  believer  in  the  scientific  method, 
and  think  that  all  knowledge  is  capable  of  being  made  scientifically 
systematic." 

"I  do  not  believe  that  we  are  here  concerned  with  a  matter  oT 
knowledge  which  is  susceptible  of  scientific  treatment  at  all.  What 
you  want  then  is  a  scientific  explanation  of  the  principles  which  under- 
lie literary  pleasures.  And  you  assume  that  this  pleasure  is  so  uniform 
and  invariable  that  what  is  true  for  me  will  be  true  for  you  in  the  main, 
so  that  laws  of  literary  enjoyment  may  be  discovered,  which  will  serve 
as  a  test  for  literature." 

"Yes,  much  as  you  apply  logic  to  discover  fallacies  in  argument, 
you  might  apply  these  laws  which  determine  pleasure  in  literature." 

"You  would  have  to  read  a  work  of  literature  to  be  able  to  apply 
the  test  and  discover  whether  the  rules  sanctioned  your  enjoyment  of 
it,  would  you  not?" 

"No,  not  entire ;  for  you  would  soon  know  that  there  was  no  like- 
lihood of  the  book's  giving  you  pleasure,  and  then  cease  reading  it." 

"How  would  you  know  that?" 

"Having  a  knowledge  of  the  laws  governing  the  enjoyment  of  liter- 
ature, I  could  soon  discover  whether  the  work  was  conformable  to 
them." 

"And  in  the  meantime  you  would  be  reading  quite  without  any 
emotion  at  all  ?  Waiting  until  you  should  have  read  enough  so  that  the 
applicability  of  the  laws  might  be  determined?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"But  suppose  that  you  did  experience  some  pleasure  before  you 
had  determined  whether  you  should  or  not ;  it  would  then  be  necessary 
to  revise  your  laws  so  as  to  include  this  again.  What  you  have  done  is 
to  shift  the  authority  from  the  book  to  your  own  pleasure.  Whereas 
according  to  the  canons  of  criticism,  this  book  is  good  or  that  bad,  you 


83 


now  say  that  this  pleasure  is  good,  that  bad;  and  you  have  the  same 
authority  and  orthodoxy  as  before." 

"However  that  may  be,  I  still  believe  that  an  analysis  of  the  things 
that  give  me  pleasure  will  be  valuable  to  me,  and  will  give  me  more 
pleasure  in  turn." 

"I  believe  that  too;  and  that's  just  what  you  and  your  friends  do 
when  you  pass  judgment  together  upon  the  book  you  have  been  reading. 
Why  should  you  then  insist  that  I  tell  you  what  are  the  qualities  that 
give  pleasure  in  literature?  When  I  try  to  explain  to  myself  what  they 
are,  this  explanation  is  valid  only  for  myself.  I  do  not  believe  that  It 
is  so  for  you,  and  I  cannot  understand  why  you  should  think  that  it 
might  be.    I  know  of  no  canons  of  criticism  which  are  valid  in  general." 

"Isn't  it  then  the  function  of  you  men  who  teach  English  to  dis- 
cover them  by  scientific  methods,  and  tell  us  laymen  in  such  things  what 
they  are?" 

"I  can  tell  you  what  my  opinion  in  the  matter  is,  and  frankly  own 
that  the  opinion  is  based  upon  feeling  rather  than  upon  purely  intellect- 
ual processes.  If  you  could  tell  me  what  beauty  is,  I  might  give  you 
canons ;  if  you  could  tell  me  what  life  really  is,  I  might  try  to  tell  you 
what  beauty  is ;  but  these  are  questions  about  which  I  am  content  to 
speculate  without  hope  of  scientific  explanation  for  some  time  to  come. 
In  the  meantime  there  is  for  me  the  outstanding  fact  that  I  enjoy  life 
and  beauty  with  a  zest  not  in  the  least  dulled  by  my  inability  to  define 
scientifically  the  pleasure  for  you.  You  are  asking  me  to  do  that  which 
will  take  the  heart  out  of  your  pleasure,  the  soul  out  of  your  beauty. 
You  are  bent  upon  the  destruction  of  your  pleasure,  not  upon  the 
heightening  of  it." 

"Well,  I  am  especially  interested  in  this  question  because  I  have 
had  an  unfortunate  experience  in  acquiring  an  appreciation  of  litera- 
ture. I  was  taught  by  the  early  analytic  method.  We  analyzed  a  few 
select  poems  and  works  of  literature  with  the  result  that  I  lost  what 
liking  I  may  have  had  for  literature  in  the  beginning.  Since  that  ex- 
perience I  have  picked  up  by  myself  haphazardly  what  I  know,  and  have 
acquired  my  liking  for  it  by  myself.  I  am  in  doubt  about  the  quality  of 
the  literature  which  I  read  and  enjoy." 

"Then  it  is  strange  to  me  that,  in  the  face  of  that  experience,  you 
want  to  apply  to  the  judgment  and  appreciation  of  literature  now  the 
very  method  which  in  the  first  instance  robbed  you  of  what  joy  you 
may  have  found  in  it — the  scientific,  analytic  method.  Will  you  not 
destroy  your  liking  a  second  time,  if  you  obtain  your  desire?  Is  it  not 
enough  that  you  enjoy?" 

Such  is  the  course  of  our  conversation.     It  has  proceeded  far 


84 


enough  to  make  it  clear  what  are  the  elementary  differences  between  my 
questioner  and  me.  He,  though  not  himself  a  scientist  by  profession, 
insists  upon  the  clearest  formulation  of  his  knowledge,  and  upon  in- 
cluding under  knowledge  which  is  thus  to  be  formulated  and  systema- 
tized, many  things  which  are  not  properly  knowledge  as  that  word  Is 
ordinarily  understood  at  all.  I  am  not  a  scientist  by  profession,  and  in 
his  sense  of  the  word  less  so  by  inclination.  I  cannot  yield  to  his  de- 
mand concerning  the  analysis  of  pleasure  derived  from  literature,  al- 
though I  may  know  that  it  is  at  the  price  of  being  considered  ignorant. 
I  must  bear  that  embarrassment  now  in  the  faith  that  what  may  be  the 
correct  scientific  attitude  towards  some  fields  of  research  may  be  found 
to  be  unsuited  in  others,  as,  for  instance,  that  field  which  is  my  academic 
subject. 

The  confession  which  I  have  been  tortuously  approaching  is  this : 
I  do  not  know  the  permanent  canons  of  criticism;  I  do  not  know  the 
laws  of  pleasing  in  literature;  I  cannot  define  beauty;  although  I  do 
maintain  that  I  take  pleasure  in  literature  without  concerning  myself 
much  about  the  nature  of  that  pleasure.  My  task  here  consequently 
becomes  the  defense  of  my  ignorance.  And  I  intend  to  proceed  in  some- 
what the  following  course.  First,  to  show  that  the  history  of  literary 
criticism  has  been  but  the  struggle  between  the  two  types  of  mind 
which  the  opening  dialogue  represents,  in  which  struggle  the  formalistic 
mind  has  been  in  the  ascendancy  until  the  eighteenth  century,  when  it 
was  overthrown  by  the  other  opposing  type;  second,  to  show  that  the 
present  struggle  in  criticism  is  the  same  as  the  old  except  that  it  is 
waged  under  new  forms  and  with  this  difference  that  now  the  practice 
in  criticism  is  determined  by  the  second  type  of  mind,  while  the  other 
insists  upon  the  elevation  of  new  standards  again;  and  finally  to  try 
to  show  that  this  elevation  of  new  standards  is  not  possible  since  the 
testimony  of  history  is  against  it,  and  the  testimony  of  various  other 
fields  of  intellectual  and  spiritual  activity  oppose  it  as  well. 

The  two  types  of  mind  revealed  in  the  foregoing  dialogue,  whose 
struggles  constitute  the  history  of  literary  criticism,  are  variously  named : 
Aristotelian  and  Platonic,  dogmatic  and  protestant,  formal  and  familiar, 
classic  and  romantic,  scholastic  and  humanistic,  aristocratic  and  demo- 
cratic, authoritarian  and  latitudinarian,  analytic  and  creative,  scientific 
and  artistic,  academic  and  impressionistic,  etc.  Whatever  form  the 
quarrel  between  these  two  types  of  mind  may  have  taken,  or  whatever 
the  matter  of  their  contention  may  have  been,  or  the  names  of  the  re- 
spective parties,  it  is  nevertheless  true  that  the  distinctions  between  the 
two  hold  in  the  main  and  that  the  essential  differences  are  those  of 
temperament  rather  than  anything  else. 


85 


Aristotle  is  by  general  consent  credited  with  being  the  originator 
of  the  art  of  literary  criticism,  and  is  of  course  the  prototype  of  a  cer- 
tain kind  of  mind,  as  I  have  indicated.  Whether  he  himself  represented 
all  that  subsequent  literary  critics  have  attributed  to  him  is  a  question  not 
yet  entirely  solved,  but  it  may  be  said  in  passing  that  he  was  much  more 
sensible  about  the  limits  of  his  theories  of  literature  than  his  followers 
and  interpreters  have  been.  What  Aristotle  has  come  to  represent  has 
been  briefly  summarize3  as  the  insistence  that  the  writer  must  please 
in  a  certain  kind,  by  a  certain  quality,  according  to  a  certain  rule.  It 
was  on  account  of  his  consideration  of  technical  questions  in  a  sys- 
tematic manner  that  this  formalistic  twist  was  given  to  his  teaching. 
But  he  also  taught  that  "all  art  and  literature  should  have  as  function 
the  pleasure-giving  representation  or  'imitation'  of  what  was  universal, 
appertaining  to  all  human  nature,  and  not  particularly  or  significantly 
mdividual ;  and  that  a  great  art  was  measured  by  the  high  and  lasting 
pleasure  it  afforded  to  society."  His  method  of  approach  in  arriving  at 
his  formulations  was  that  of  induction.  And  this  induction,  it  must  be 
lemembered,  was  limited  to  Greek  literature,  and  to  a  part  of  that.  The 
Aristotelian  method  of  criticism  had  its  way  in  the  course  of  criticism 
through  a  long  succession  of  Greek,  Byzantine,  and  Latin  critics,  un- 
broken by  the  work  of  Longinus,  On  the  Sublime.  This  work  was 
the  first  positive  adumbration  of  the  ultimate  trend  of  criticism. 

It  was  the  especial  contribution  of  Longinus  to  introduce  that  con- 
ception of  Appreciation  into  criticism,  which  Aristotle,  seeking  after 
universals,  failed  to"mclude.  Longinus  in  seeking  after  the  principle  of 
Sublimity,  concludes  that  the  "transport"  that  art  causes  does  not  require 
that  it  profit  or  instruct.  It  is  enough  that  it  delight.  As  compared  with 
Aristotle  he  declares  that  it  is  the  critic's  intermediate  duty  to  form 
rules  and  kinds,  if  it  is  his  business  to  concern  himself  with  these  at  all. 
Faultlessness  as  a  criterion,  one  of  the  strictest  canons  of  the  formal- 
ists, he  rejected.  And  finally  he  considered  critical  judgment  to  be 
the  "last  acquired  fruit  of  long  endeavor,"  i.  e.,  careful  induction. 
Longinus,  accordingly,  was  the  first  representative  of  worth  of  the  sec- 
ond type  of  mind  in  criticism,  the  appreciative.  Following  Longinus 
is  a  succession  of  the  mechanical-rules  type  of  critics,  containing  some 
celebrated  names,  as  Horace,  with  his  so-called  Ars  Poetica,  Cicero,  and 
mmors  who  out-Aristotle  Aristotle  in  their  insistence  upon  the  arbitrary, 
elegant  creed  of  restraint,  order  and  positive  rule.  Among  the  Latin 
names  in  criticism,  with  a  leaning  toward  the  romantic,  are  those  of  the 
satirists,  Juvenal,  and  Martial,  and  especially  that  of  Quintilian. 

With  the  exception  of  Dante,  the  Middle  Ages  are  blank  up  till 
1600.     Dante's  ideas  were  quite  in  the  tradition  of  classicism,  except 

86 


that  he  justified  the  use  of  the  vernacular  for  poetry,  and  in  so  doing 
exhibited  the  beginnings  of  the  Renaissance  defense  of  the  modern 
languages  for  purposes  of  poetry,  and  pointed  in  that  way  in  the  direc- 
tion of  freedom. 

Of  more  value,  however,  although  of  not  much  more  novelty,  but 
continuing  the  classical  tradition  with  some  cleverness  and  even  bril- 
liancy, were  the  critics  of  the  earlier  and  later  Renaissance,  serving  in 
addition  to  transfer  the  canons  of  criticism  to  England  and  the  rest 
of  Europe.  Up  to  Scaliger  and  Castelvetro  the  course  of  criticism  was 
but  a  hardening  and  strengthening  of  the  classical  method  into  that 
system  which  has  been  called  the  neo-classic,  the  system  of  Good  Sense 
and  Taste.  During  all  these  years  then  Aristotle  was  the  supreme  au- 
thority in  criticism,  and  the  art  itself  was  become  nothing  more  than 
the  deduction  of  principles  from  those  inductively  discovered  by  Aris- 
totle. What  few  lapses  there  were  from  this  method  were  of  not  per- 
manent moment  in  history  of  criticism— merely  serving  as  indications 
of  a  different  method. 

Criticism  in  England,  to  which  we  may  as  well  limit  ourselves 
henceforth,  since  in  modern  times  the  critical  art  has  been  much  the 
same  in  the  various  European  literary  nations,  showed  increasing  in- 
dications here  and  there  of  a  breaking  away  from  this  despotic  Aris- 
totelian rule;  yet  those  who  adhered  to  the  rule,  and  they  were  in  the 
majority,  strengthened  it  still  further  in  the  neo-classic  direction,  aided 
by  French  interpreters,  until  in  the  early  eighteenth  century  the  reductio 
ad  absurdiim  of  classicism  had  been  reached.  It  had  at  length  over- 
reached itself,  and  from  that  remarkable  climax  dated  the  final  eleva- 
tion of  the  romantic  criticism  to  a  position  of  superiority,  or  at  least 
of  parity,  where  it  remains  today  under  new  shibboleths  and  forms. 
We  have  scarcely  time  to  do  more  than  mention  the  services  of  such 
men  as  Corneille,  Boileau,  Diderot,  Hugo,  Sainte  Beuve  in  France; 
Kant,  Schiller,  and  Eessing  in  Germany;  and  Sidney,  Pope,  Dryden, 
Addison,  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  and  Shelley  and  many  others  in  Eng- 
land, representing  one  side  or  another  of  critical  theory. 

In  England,  amid  the  almost  universal  orthodoxy  of  Aristotelian 
criticism,  there  were  occasional  lapses  from  the  method  by  men  who 
expressed  what  they  actually  thought  and  saw.  But  these  were  in  the 
way  of  rebellion  against  the  judgment-by-rule  method.  Sidney,  in  spir- 
it a  true  poet,  argues  formally  against  his  own  poetical  practice.  Un- 
consciously he  rebels  against  the  classical.  One  would  need  to  go  far 
to  find  a  more  capable  champion  of  the  classical  in  English  literature 
than  Ben  Jonson;  yet  rare  Ben  in  a  moment  of  common  sense  advises 
"read  the  best  books,  observe  the  best  speakers,  and  exercise  your  own 

«7 


style  much."  Here  in  his  emphasis  upon  writers  rather  than  upon  rules 
he  is  on  the  way  to  that  just  criticism  which  will  be  attained  eventually, 
"the  fruit  of  long  endeavor,"  by  induction.  But  in  his  emphasis  upon 
the  "best"  books  he  reveals  his  orthodoxy ;  for  only  the  critic  can  deter- 
mine which  is  the  best  book.  When  I  spoke  of  Jonson  advising  this 
in  a  moment  of  common  sense,  I  did  so  quite  advisedly ;  using  common 
sense  as  something  very  different  from  the  Good  Sense  of  the  formal- 
ists. Common  sense  is  the  natural  man  speaking  when  his  special  train- 
ing is  asleep ;  good  sense  is  that  which  is  in  accord  with  accepted  theory, 
oftentimes  anything  but  natural.  There  is  much  invidious  comparison 
implied  in  the  word  "good."  Good  sense  is  the  aristocrat's  prerogative 
as  against  the  common  sense  of  the  commonalty.  More  than  all  others 
does  Dryden,  when  he  speaks  as  poet,  not  as  critic,  reveal  the  spirit  of 
the  new  criticism  before  its  advent.  And  yet  Dryden  docilely  accepts 
the  principles  of  literary  criticism  by  rule.  When  he  speaks  for  him- 
self, that  is,  when  his  common  sense  speaks,  he  makes  such  pointed  re- 
marks as  that  one  about  Aristotle,  that  if  he  had  seen  the  English  plays 
probably  he  would  have  judged  differently — an  inference  rational 
enough,  since  Aristotle's  method  was  that  of  induction  from  what  was 
already  in  existence.  It  was  probably  Dryden  who  established  the  Eng- 
lish fashion  of  criticism,  that  of  "aiming  at  delight,  truth,  justice,  na- 
ture, poetry,  and  letting  the  rules  take  care  of  themselves,"  as  Saints- 
bury  puts  it.  Dryden  considered  individual  works  of  literature  without 
regard  to  principles  on  the  sound  ground  of  the  impression  they  made 
on  him,  believing  that  this  delight  or  transport  was  the  first  criterion  of 
criticism ;  literature  must  delight.  Saintsbury,  who  defends  in  our  times 
the  romantic  type  of  mind  in  criticism,  observes  regarding  the  services 
of  Dryden  that,  "the  critical  reading  without  theory,  or  with  theory 
postponed,  of  masses  of  different  literatures,  and  the  formation  and 
expression  of  genuine  judgments  as  to  what  the  critic  liked,  not  what 
he  thought  he  ought  to  like  or  dislike — this  was  what  was  wanted, 
and  what  nobody  had  yet  done."  Dryden  consequently  was  a  lonely 
outpost  of  the  movement  which  was  to  come  in  great  force  when  the 
post-Dryden  classicalism  began  to  break  away.  Samuel  Johnson,  com- 
ing just  at  the  time  of  this  breaking-up  of  quintessential  formalism  in 
English,  himself  one  of  the  staunchest  defenders  of  conservatism  in 
poetry  as  in  all  things  else,  says  perhaps  a  little  querulously  that  "criti- 
cism is  now  the  judging  of  books  and  authors,"  that  it  is  judging  by  the 
event  and  not  by  rule,  o  posteriori  and  not  a  priori. 

When  the  overturning  of  the  classical  dogmatism  was  once  ac- 
complished by  a  long  line  of  poets,  who  occasionally  criticized,  a  fruit- 
ful union  of  powers  and  functions — criticism  of  the  formal  kind — the 

88 


mechanical,  measuring  kind,  disappeared.  Systems  have  been  pro- 
mulgated since,  which  though  not  of  the  old  kind,  bear  marks  of  having 
originated  in  the  same  type  of  mind,  moderated  to  suit  modern  thought 
on  social  conditions.  This  new,  romantic  or  individual,  interpretative, 
appreciative,  impressionistic  kind  dates  then  from  the  successful  at- 
tack on  the  classical  method  in  the  eighteenth  century.  Its  creed  has 
been  variously  expressed ;  perhaps  it  were  better  to  deny  it  creed,  how- 
ever, for  creed  implies  rule  to  be  applied  a  priori.  The  spirit  of  this 
criticism  has  been  given  such  expression  as  the  following,  to  mention 
but  a  few:  Hazlitt  describes  his  practice  in  these  words,  "I  have  en- 
deavored to  feel  what  was  good,  and  to  give  a  reason  for  the  faith  that 
was  in  me  when  necessary  and  when  in  my  power."  And  Pater  con- 
siders criticism  to  be  the  defining  of  feeling,  "to  feel  strongly  the  charm 
of  an  old  poet  or  moralist  ....  and  then  to  interpret  that  charm, 
to  convey  it  to  others  ....  this  is  the  way  of  criticism."  Or  again, 
"To  feel  the  virtue  of  the  poet  or  painter,  to  disengage  it,  to  set  it  forth, 
— these  are  the  three  stages  of  the  critic's  duty."  I  take  it  that  these 
express  pretty  well  what  has  become  of  the  critic's  function,  and  that 
the  descriptions  of  method  will  hold  today.  But  there  is  a  difference 
of  opinion  as  to  how  the  critic's  function  is  to  be  carried  on.  And  that 
difference  is  based  upon  that  difference  of  temperament  which  I  men- 
tioned as  being  at  the  root  of  different  theories  of  criticism. 

The  general  course  of  criticism,  as  we  have  roughly  traced  it,  has 
been  away  from  that  Aristotelian,  formalistic,  kind  that  concerned  itself 
at  its  best  with  formulating  rules  for  the  guidance  of  writers  by  induc- 
tion from  more  or  less  general  lists  of  authors,  and  at  its  worst  deducing 
rules  from  Aristotle's  first  principles.  Criticism  in  this  view  consisted 
in  regarding  literature  as  similar  to  material  objects  of  scientific  ob- 
servation and  susceptible  of  the  same  treatment  as  such  in  the  process 
of  obtaining  laws.  Under  this  system  Aristotle  has  been  set  up  as  an  in- 
fallible pope  whose  authority  should  be  unquestioned  and  whose  pre- 
cepts should  be  obeyed  by  anyone  who  would  aspire  to  the  name  of 
poet.  These  precepts  have  had  a  way  of  becoming  more  and  more  rigid 
and  consequently  more  limiting  to  the  poet  who  subscribed  to  them  as 
the  scholastic  influence  had  to  do  with  their  interpretation,  until  in  the 
end  the  Aristotehan  classical  criticism  became  not  more  than  a  catalog 
of  prohibitions,  a  sort  of  imperial  proclamation  of  "Verbotens,"  by  the 
faithful  obedience  to  which  the  writer  might  win  to  "faultlessness  and 
eternal  grace."  But  posterity  had  a  habit  of  cutting  the  eternal  grace 
short  off,  sometimes. 

All  this  criticism  was  for  the  benefit  of  the  poet.  Critics  had  all 
seemed  to  forget  that  poets  had  existed  before  Aristotle  formulated  his 


89 


laws,  and  that  Aristotle  had  but  commented  upon  the  work  poets  had 
already  done,  probably  with  no  intention  of  dogmatizing  to  those  who 
were  to  follow.  That  was  the  first  step  in  the  direction  away  from  the 
true  scientific  method  of  Aristotle,  and  the  pseudo-scientific  method  of 
deduction  from  accepted  principles  was  established  as  the  Aristotelian 
method,  for  the  judgment  of  literature  a  priori.  Criticism  in  this  inter- 
pretation becomes  merely  a  matter  of  applying  the  footrule  to  discover 
faults,  to  reveal  them,  and  thus  to  condemn  or  glorify  the  work.  Had 
criticism  been  as  potent  as  its  pretensions  were  magnified,  literature 
would  have  been  limited  to  the  same  continual  round  of  subjects,  done 
in  the  same  way,  and  of  invariable  quality.  Change  could  not  have  oc- 
curred. 

However,  poets  sometimes  are  ignorant  of  rules,  know  nothing  but 
their  desire  to  create,  and  their  joy  in  the  power  to  consummate  the  de- 
sire; thus  arise  productions  quite  contrary  to  the  rules.  Now  such 
literature  is  considered  excommunicate  by  the  orthodox,  since  it  will 
not  come  under  the  dominion  of  the  rule.  Thus  the  literature  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  unaware  of  the  existence  of  Aristotle,  somehow  con- 
trived to  come  into  being  nevertheless,  and  to  flourish,  until  in  the  Re- 
naissance, when  the  inspired  scripture  of  criticism  was  rediscovered,  it 
was  found  by  the  expounders  and  commentators  of  this  scripture  that 
the  literature  of  the  Middle  Ages  would  not  do  at  all.  It  was  therefore 
ignored  by  the  critics. 

When  Shakespeare  wrote,  he  was  constrained  to  violate 
almost  all  the  rules  that  the  critics  had  laboriously  construct- 
ed, perhaps  because  he  didn't  know  what  they  were,  but  more 
likely  because  mere  playwriting — undignified  trade  as  it  was — the  pleas- 
ing of  the  populace  with  his  .shows,  was  not  literature  anyway,  and 
need  not  be  too  carefully  limited  by  correctness.  Having,  however,  a 
normal  human  desire  for  fame,  he  had  placed  a  sheet  anchor  to  wind- 
ward by  composing  some  little  poems,  so  dainty  and  regular  and  work- 
manlike and  correct,  that  he  won  by  them  the  suffrage  of  the  con- 
noisseurs, who  guaranteed  him  his  desire.  These  poems  he  published; 
his  plays,  output  of  his  workshop,  merely  earned  him  a  living,  and 
were  not  published.  What  a  calamity  would  it  not  have  been,  had 
Shakespeare  been  directed  in  the  composition  of  his  dramas  by  the  post- 
Aristotelian  scheme  of  criticism,  and  given  us  dramas  as  regular  and 
insipid  as  the  Venus  and  Adonis  for  instance,  which  he  published.  As 
usual  the  judgment  of  the  populace,  whom  he  sought  to  please,  that 
base  populace  who  knew  naught  of,  and  cared  less  for,  the  rules  of  the 
critics,  so  they  might  get  their  penn'orths  of  pleasure — as  usual,  how 
their  judgment  has  won  out  in  the  long  run.    But  Shakespeare's  reputa- 

»o 


tion  suffered  for  his  presumption.  He  had  most  monstrously  trans- 
gressed, for  he  had  ignored  the  Unities ;  he  had  denied  the  Holy  Trinity 
of  dramatic  criticism.  For  a  hundred  years  he  was  forgotten.  Then 
the  heretics  of  the  romantic  revival  drew  attention  to  this  treasure  in 
their  national  gallery,  and  got  the  name  of  Shakespeare  again  inscribed 
among  the  reputable  citizens  of  the  republic  of  letters. 

It  must  not  be  understood  that  the  classical  criticism  and  its  per- 
versions had  its  own  way  altogether  throughout  this  long  time. 
It  could  not  entirely  ignore  the  literature  which  had  appeared  subse- 
quently to  Aristotle  without  a  serious  battle  now  and  then  with  those 
persons  who  demanded  a  certificate  of  legitimacy  for  it,  and  its  inclu- 
sion in  a  broader  field  of  induction  for  formulating  new  rules.  There 
were  continual  struggles  between  the  Ancients  and  the  Moderns  up  till 
the  eighteenth  century,  one  set  of  ideas  dominating  now,  another  then, 
but  with  no  appreciable  effect  upon  the  methods  of  criticism.  The 
modern  was  judged  according  as  he  succeeded  in  doing  well  what  the 
ancients  had  done;  he  was  successful  in  proportion  as  he  was  a  good 
imitator.  The  struggle  in  England  over  the  question  of  rhyme  is  an- 
other of  the  same  kind,  for  rhyme  was  a  barbarous,  Gothic  invention  of 
the  Dark  Ages,  not  to  be  admitted  into  polite  society.  But  the  impu- 
dent barbarian  not  only  broke  in,  but  was  most  cordially  treated  in 
the  politest  of  societies,  much  to  the  consternation  of  critics.  In  fine,  I 
think  it  may  be  said  of  preventive  criticism  that  it  never  prevented  a 
good  poet,  though  it  may  have  made  many  a  bad  one.  The  poet  has  an 
unfortunate  habit  of  being  a  rule  unto  himself,  and  often  enough,  what- 
ever society  or  the  critics  may  have  thought  of  it,  the  rules  have  had 
to  be  amended  after  his  advent. 

When  after  the  customary  lapse  of  years,  the  conservative  mind  be- 
came aware  of  what  lay  patent  before  it,  it  was  then  discovered  that  all 
commands  of  the  critic  to  write  a  priori  was  ignored,  and  in  the  main 
with  great  success,  so  that  criticism  had  fallen  of  its  own  weight ;  then 
it  began  to  be  considered  the  critic's  function  to  pass  judgment  on  au- 
thors a  posteriori,  "after  the  event,"  as  Samuel  Johnson  puts  it,  and  as 
many  original  viewers  of  literature  had  long  suspected  the  case  should 
be.  At  all  events  the  exercise  of  commandments  against  those  who  do 
not  obey  is  an  ungrateful  task,  and  what  is  infinitely  worse,  it  is  an 
undignified  task.  The  thing  to  do  then  is  to  find  someone  who  will 
obey,  and  set  commandments  for  him;  the  first  essential  is  obedience 
from  someone,  it  matters  little  whom. 

Criticism  is  accordingly  shifted  from  writer  to  reader,  and  what 
the  writer  ought  to  do  has  been  changed  to  what  the  reader  ought  to 
like.    Canons  for  the  writer's  guidance  having  broken  down,  canons  for 


91 


the  reader's  guidance  may  possibly  set  up.  That  was  the  turn  given 
to  classified  dogmatic  criticism  by  the  romantic  movement.  Although 
the  neo-classical  perversion  of  Aristotelianism  whereby  authors  were 
judged  a  priori  by  rule  has  been  given  up,  the  type  of  mind  of  this 
criticism  still  persists,  and  concerns  itself  over  much  with  the  ought 
for  the  reader,  and  thus  indirectly  with  the  ought  for  the  writer.  For 
to  say  to  the  reader  after  the  event  that  he  ought  not  to  like  a  certain 
book  is  equivalent  to  saying  to  the  author  that  he  ought  not  to  have 
written  a  certain  book,  although  it  does  grant  him  the  privilege  of  writ- 
ing whatever  he  may  please  for  the  critic's  subsequent  judgment.  To 
grant  the  critic  the  right  to  say  to  the  reader  what  he  ought  to  like  and 
dislike  is  after  all  to  grant  him  the  right  to  dictate  to  the  writer.  So 
that  the  criticism  is  in  effect  where  it  was  in  the  beginning.  There  can 
be  no  more  hope  for  it  to  prevail  in  this  than  there  was  success  for  it 
in  the  former  way. 

The  persistence  of  the  neo-classic  type  is  shown  in  the  theory  of 
such  a  critic  as  Matthew  Arnold,  for  instance,  in  such  a  work  as  that 
On  Translating  Homer  where  there  are  canons  for  poetry.  Poetry  of 
the  best  kind  must  be  in  the  "grand  style,"  as  that  style  is  somewhat 
vaguely  defined  by'Arnold.  If  it  is  not  in  this  "grand  style"  according 
to  Arnold's  definition,  it  cannot  be  great  poetry.  That  is  a  neW  version 
of  Aristotelianism.  Lessing,  too,  before  Arnold,  doing  a  great  service  for 
criticism  by  clearing  it  of  many  foolish  prejudices,  re-establishes  it 
again  upon  Aristotle  more  firmly  than  ever.  The  reformers  do  but 
establish  a  new  discipline  for  the  old,  which,  as  soon  as  it  is  discovered 
to  be  mere  discipline,  becomes  as  irksome  as  the  old.  Lessing  dreads 
the  antinomianism  of  the  Storm  and  Stress;  therefore  he  establishes 
criticism  as  a  discipline  upon  the  purified  Aristotelian  basis.  Of  the 
criticism  in  the  direction  of  freedom  we  have  those  masters  who  have 
given  their  methods  above,  Hazlitt  and  Pater,  and  others  since. 

But  what  I  have  wanted  to  emphasize  is  that  the  difference  be- 
tween the  two  great  opposing  parties  in  criticism  is  similar  to  that  which 
we  have  upon  other  larger  questions  perhaps,  the  difference  between 
two  temperaments  which  may  be  variously  designated  again  as  the 
standpat  and  the  progressive,  conservative  and  liberal,  classical  and 
romantic,  dogmatic  and  free,  orthodox  and  heterodox,  etc.  While  the 
romantic  criticism  as  defined  in  its  method  by  Pater — "To  feel  the 
virtue  of  the  poet,  to  disengage  it,  and  to  see  it  forth" — is  upheld  by  the 
majority,  and  seems  indeed  to  be  the  prevailing  method  in  practice, 
whatever  may  be  the  theory  of  the  critic,  as  is  exemplified  by  the  dis- 
crepancy between  the  theory  and  practice  of  Arnold ;  yet  the  old  divi- 
sion occurs  and  we  fin3  critics  taking  sides  in  two  camps,  the  academic 

92 


and  the  impressionistic,  where  we  have  again  the  same  old  quarrel, 
under  different  terms  and  phrases.  Pater's  criticism,  excellently  de- 
fined above  as  to  its  method,  is  of  course  the  impressionistic  method  of 
today.  The  academic  has  been  established  upon  the  following  prin- 
ciples : 

"1.     Due  weight  should  be  given  to  the  collective  wisdom  of  the 
past  and  the  trained  knowledge  of  the  present. 

"2.     There  are  more  or  less  ascertainable  degrees  of  value  in  var- 
ious genres  of  artistic  production. 

"3.  No  art  can  be  absolutely  divorced  from  ethics." 
How  typical  of  the  two  different  types  of  mind!  Pater  merely  tells 
what  his  impressions  are,  not  what  those  of  others  ought  to  be;  the 
academic  critic  is  concerned  about  what  others  ought  to  think  or  feel 
and  emphasizes  that  "due  weight  should  be  given,"  that  "there  are  de- 
grees of  value  in  genres" ;  that  "art  cannot  be  divorced  from  ethics." 
There  are  three  dogmatic  statements  for  your  unquestionable  accep- 
tance. Whatever  its  creed  may  be  this  legalist  mind  would  like  to  have 
it  sharply  defined  so  that  there  may  be  little  question  about  matters 
coming  up  for  judgment  under  it.  It  is  fearful  that,  if  judgment  in 
matters  of  literary  concern  be  left  in  the  hands  of  the  individual,  "un- 
formed" opinion  may  come  to  prevail.  This  danger  may  be  averted  by 
referring  the  matter  to  "formed"  opinion.  As  to  what  is  "formed"  opin- 
ion, that  is  a  matter  for  the  self-constituted  "formed"  opinion,  that  is 
the  critics,  to  decide.  There  is  little  difference  between  this  attitude  and 
that  of  neo-classicism — the  spirit,  at  least,  is  the  same.  Yet  Professor 
Babbit,  an  academic,  considers  neo-classicism  to  be  nothing  but  "Jesuiti- 
cal casuistry."  Although  he  affects  to  despise  neo-classicism,  he  con- 
siders it  to  be  "related  to  a  virtue — the  love  of  clear  and  logical  dis- 
tinctness," meaning  by  this  that  that  clear  and  logical  distinctness  which 
for  him  is  a  virtue  ought  to  be  so  for  you.  And  again  he  implies  that 
his  impression  is  to  be  set  up  for  a  standard  when  he  considers  "our 
modern  appreciativeness"  as  "only  the  amiable  aspect  of  a  fault — an 
undue  tolerance  for  indeterminate  enthusiasm  and  vapid  emotional- 
ism," meaning  here  again  that  he  should  let  it  be  known  what  are  the 
limits  beyond  which  emotionalism  becomes  vapid  and  enthusiasm  inde- 
terminate. I  imagine  that  the  only  answer  to  such  an  indictment  of  the 
impressionistic  in  criticism  is  to  say  that  if  the  matter  in  which  people 
generally  take  pleasure  after  having  had  knowledge  of  it  for  some  time 
is  judged  by  Professor  Babbit  to  be  vapid  emotionalism,  then  he  will 
eventually  have  to  revise  his  code  to  include  vapid  emotionalism.  His 
impression,  for  that  is  all  it  was,  all  it  could  be,  was  wrong,  in  the  judg- 
ment of  the  final  arbiter.    Professor  Babbit  is  of  the  type  which  insists 

93 


upon  setting  up  standards,  rules,  however  little  may  have  been  accom- 
plished by  them  in  the  past.  It  is  the  weakness  of  the  type.  I  suppose 
that  it  is  not  aware  that  it  merely  substitutes  new  rules  for  old.  Critics 
of  this  type  do  make  a  concession  to  the  status  of  things  as  they  are  by 
substituting  (in  their  dread  of  mere  antinomianism)  for  the  hard  and 
fast  rules,  which  are  so  obviously  out  of  place,  vague  rules  or  ill-de- 
fined generalizations  which  it  is  possible  for  each  to  interpret  according 
to  his  own  likes  or  dislikes.  This  criticism  is  actually  treated  as  if  it 
were  mere  appreciation  or  impression,  although  it  affects  to  be  academ- 
ic; the  reader  indulges  the  critic  in  his  whim.  Such  criticism  is  Arn- 
old's of  the  "grand  style."  Consequently  for  practical  purposes  the 
academics  may  as  well  say  that  their  criticism  is  merely  appreciation 
or  impression.  But  the  aristocratic  tj^ie  of  mind  is  not  satisfied  with 
the  mere  appreciation  of  literature ;  it  must  have  the  additional  pleasure 
(the  perquisite  of  aristocracy)  of  handing  down  its  better  opinion,  its 
"good"  sense  to  others.  This  type,  like  the  poor  of  Scripture,  we  shall 
always  have  with  us.  It  will  never  be  satisfied  with  the  critical  faith 
that  each  man  is  sufficient  authority  unto  himself  for  his  own  likes  and 
dislikes  in  literature.  It  is  of  that  strange  individualistic  type  which 
regards  itself  and  some  few  others  of  its  own  selection  as  individual 
entities  disintegrated  from  an  amorphous  lump  called  humanity  and 
burdened  down  with  the  enormous  responsibility  for  moulding  this 
lump  into  some  semblance  of  good  form,  like  themselves.  So  long  as 
you  have  men  of  this  mind,  and  that  will  be  a  long  time,  you  will  always 
have  the  quarrel  between  them  and  the  liberals,  whatever  may  be  the 
actual  working  theory  of  any  time. 

Since  the  question  now  is  one  of  authority  in  literary  pleasures,  and 
there  seems  to  be  no  authority  in  this  vague  field  of  the  feelings,  aca- 
demic critics,  like  my  friend,  look  forward  to  the  coming  of  some  great 
scientist  in  the  field  of  aesthetics,  whose  figure  shall  impose  upon  us 
as  Aristotle's  did  upon  the  mind  of  the  Renaissance  and  upon  whose 
dicta  rules  for  the  determining  of  values  in  books  may  be  promulgated. 
In  the  meantime,  which  to  my  mind  will  be  for  all  time,  each  individual 
who  desires,  as  a  part  of  the  pleasure  which  he  derives  from  books,  to 
analyze  his  feelings,  or  have  others  analyze  them  for  him,  may  certainly 
do  so.  This  kind  of  criticism  is  merely  a  part  of  the  pleasure  which  he 
derives  from  books.  However,  when  my  friend  asks  me  to  tell  him 
what  are  the  infallible  methods  for  determining  what  causes  pleasure 
in  literature,  so  that  he  may  have  "scientific"  data,  and  have  done  with 
the  vexatious  problem  of  accounting  for  these  pleasures,  he  asks  what 
is  impossible.  If  he  thinks  I  am  merely  arbitrary  about  the  matter  I 
shall  refer  him  to  some  man  whose  business  it  is  rather  than  mine  to 

9) 


explain  what  are  the  ingredients  of  his  pleasure,  to  Bosanquet,  for  in- 
stance. Bosanquet  says  that  "the  aesthetic  theorist  desires  to  under- 
stand the  artist,  not  to  interfere  with  the  latter,  but  in  order  to  satisfy 
an  intellectual  interest  of  his  own."  And  that  is  a  rational  standpoint 
for  the  literary  critic  to  take.  It  is  the  one  I  take  as  against  my  friend ; 
for  he  does  not  ask  me  to  help  him  to  appreciate  but  to  determine  why 
he  does  so.    He  asks  more  of  me  than  the  aesthetician  will  do  for  him. 

I  suppose  I  have  admitted  by  this  time  that  I  favor  the  impression- 
istic school  of  criticism,  as  against  the  academic.  The  course  of  criti- 
cism shows  that  the  canons  which  endeavor  to  dictate  to  the  poet  how 
he  shall  compose  have  broken  down ;  that  the  poet  is  now  allowed  to  go 
his  own  way,  but  that  the  canons  which  failed  in  the  poet's  case  are 
being  revived  for  the  reader's  salvation,  in  order  that  he  may  be  guided 
in  his  likes  and  dislikes  against  the  allurements  of  unformed  opinion. 
1  think  I  am  justified  in  thinking  that  what  happened  in  the  case  of  the 
canons  for  poets  will  be  more  likely  to  happen  in  the  case  of  canons 
for  readers,  if  it  has  not  already  happened.  Of  other  canons  there  can 
be  no  discussion.  It  seems  that  the  impressionist  manner  of  criticism 
will  continue  to  prevail.  It  will  continue  to  be,  as  it  is,  the  practice  of 
each  individual  to  judge  whatever  he  reads  for  himself,  to  explain  his 
own  feelings,  to  read  another's  analysis  of  similar  emotions,  or  to  find 
them  recreated  in  some  capable  critic's  appreciative  criticism,  for  the 
pleasure  he  derives  from  them  only.  I  have  no  doubt  that  there  will  be 
the  two  divisions  in  criticism,  since  they  seem  to  correspond  to  two 
needs  in  the  human  temperament.  There  will  always  be  some,  I  sup- 
pose, who  will  want  their  likes  or  dislikes  made  up  for  them  by  critics ; 
for  these  there  will  be  the  criticism  they  deserve.  There  will  always  be 
those  who  will  want  to  be  free  in  this  matter  as  in  matter  of  the  in- 
tellect.   The)'  will  be  impressionists. 

Criticism  for  them  is  but  another  phase  of  literature  which  they 
may  like  or  not.  It  will  be  in  the  main  criticism  of  life  at  two  removes ; 
literature  is  criticism  of  life  at  one  remove.  When  Arnold  said  that 
poetry  was  the  criticism  of  life  it  is  obvious  that  he  meant  by  criticism 
appreciation  or  impression.  It  would  be  just  as  rational  to  demand  that 
there  be  canons  of  life  as  that  there  should  be  canons  of  poetry. 

Criticism,  we  said,  was  criticism  of  life  at  two  removes.  Since  it 
is  appreciation,  since  it  is  subjective,  depending  upon  our  prejudices 
and  beliefs,  our  past  experience,  our  physiological  and  psychological 
constitution,  it  is  also  criticism  of  life  at  one  remove,  like  literature 
proper,  since  it  reveals,  like  literature,  an  individuality,  that  of  the  sub- 
ject. Then  it  becomes  something  more  than  a  source  of  intellectual 
pleasure ;  it  becomes  a  source  of  aesthetic  pleasure.    If  I  choose  to  find 

95 


aesthetic  pleasure  in  my  criticism,  that  is  my  concern.  If  my  friend 
chooses  to  find  intellectual  pleasure  in  his,  that  is  his  concern.  We 
grant  that  to  each  other;  I  grant  it  to  him,  but  I  am  doubtful  about 
his  generosity  with  me.  I  am  myself  inclined  with  Saintsbury,  "to 
suspect  abstract  inquiries  except  in  matters  of  pure  intellect,"  and  with 
Wordsworth  to  suspect  "those  false  secondary  powers  by  which  we 
multiply  distinctions."  Criticism  which  is  of  an  analytic  nature,  or  of 
a  scientific  nature,  or  which  is  based  upon  universals  of  any  kind,  can- 
not do  justice  to  the  delight  of  literature.  Creative  criticism  only,  by 
recreating  the  pleasure  of  the  book  for  us,  may  suggest  it ;  but  I  do  not 
think  that  the  pleasure  can  be  defined.  As  I  have  suggested  once  before 
I  should  like  to  ask  him  who  thinks  it  can  be  defined  if  he  knows  any 
definition  of  life  or  beauty  which  means  anything  more  to  him  than  the 
words  life  and  beauty  themselves.  One  may  suggest  what  they  are, 
one  may  attempt  to  recreate  the  impressions  they  make,  but  when  he 
attempts  to  define  he  is  lost.  So  about  the  pleasures  evoked  by  litera- 
ture. 

Great  as  one's  admiration  for  Aristotle  must  be  for  his  pioneer 
services  in  many  ways,  his  criticism  of  literature  must  be  suspect  be- 
cause he  attempts  to  give  a  purely  intellectual  account  of  something 
which  it  is  beyond  the  sphere  of  the  intellect  to  treat  adequately.  It 
is  all  very  well  for  the  scientific  investigator  to  examine  into  the  facts 
about  literary  genres  and  literary  excellences,  to  compare,  sift,  classify, 
and  group  them  according  to  relations  and  thus  to  obtain  some  system- 
atic knowledge  about  literature  for  statistical  or  historical  purposes. 
The  wider  the  field  of  induction  the  more  reliable  the  statistics  become. 
But  as  in  the  case  of  statistics,  new  facts  continually  arise  and  cause 
the  need  of  revision.  Statistics  do  not  define  the  nature  of  the  facts 
which  are  to  come,  any  more  than  the  nature  of  the  facts  with  which 
they  deal.  When  the  investigator  examines  into  literature,  he  examines 
into  more  than  fact ;  and  it  is  precisely  this  more-than-fact  about  litera- 
ture which  is  of  supreme  importance.  It  is  this  more-than-fact  about 
which  his  judgment  can  be  nothing  more  than  subjective  and  therefore 
necessarily  valid  for  himself  alone.  Logic  cannot  successfully  deal  with 
these  subjective  matters,  these  feelings,  for  they  are  individual,  not 
universal.  When  Aristotle  has  systematized  his  opinions,  or  the  re- 
lationships between  the  things  he  has  felt  concerning  literature,  he  has 
not  done  more  than  furnish  himself  with  an  interesting  explanation  of 
his  own  pleasures.  It  is  essentially  a  revelation  of  Aristotle,  who  hap- 
pens to  be  an  interesting  personality  and  whose  criticism  is  therefore 
more  interesting  than  that  of  any  of  the  somewhat  absurd  scholiasts 
who  followed  him  with  their  misinterpretations  of  the  master.     Had 

96 


they  imitated  his  method  instead  of  liis  assumed  content,  and  proceeded 
in  their  generahzations  from  Hterature  instead  of  deducing  from  his  so- 
called  principles,  they  would  have  done  their  master  more  honor.  The 
master  himself  would  no  doubt  have  been  the  last  to  subscribe  to  such 
methods  as  theirs.  Today  it  is  likely  that  he  would  have  been  an  im- 
pressionist (as  real  cntics  have  often  said),  for  he  seems  to  have  been 
a  man  of  common  sense,  and  would  not  have  claimed  any  more  validity 
for  his  generalizations  than  the  creative  critics  claim  for  theirs,  or  the 
aesthetic  theorists  claim  for  theirs.  Certainly  had  he  been  criticizing 
today  he  would  have  been  satisfied  with  the  advice  of  such  an  impres- 
sionist as  Saintsbury,  the  advice  that  the  critic  should  read  masses  of 
different  literatures  without  theory  or  with  theory  postponed,  and  ex- 
press genuine  judgments  of  what  he  liked  and  disliked — not  what  he 
ought  to  like  and  dislike.  With  this  he  would  probably  have  agreed; 
but  he  might  have  been  tempted  to  exalt  these  individual  judgments 
into  logical  universals,  forgetting  that  the  important  things  in  literature 
are  not  to  be  logically  treated.  About  these  things  he  has  purely  sub- 
jective judgments,  which  he  cannot  rationalize,  and  by  rationalizing 
them,  generalize  for  all  other  men.  In  subjective  matters  Aristotle's 
judgments  are  probably  like  those  of  other  men  who  have  the  same 
experience ;  that  is,  the  ordinary  individual  will  judge  of  emotional  ex- 
periences in  reading  about  similarly  with  Aristotle,  when  he  will  have 
had  the  same  reading,  and  the  same  experiences  otherwise. 

We  come  to  the  conclusion  that  criticism  is,  and  can  be,  nothing 
but  individual  expression  about  literature.  At  its  best  it  is  another  form 
of  literature.  In  lower  forms  it  is  not  literature,  but  science,  or  pseudo- 
science,  interesting  to  some  who  are  incapable  of  being  interested  in 
literature  itself,  except  as  material  for  classification.  Or  it  may  be 
simply  history,  in  which  case,  if  it  is  imaginatively  written,  it  is  like  the 
literature  of  which  it  discourses;  if  scientifically  written,  it  is  chronol- 
ogy- 

The  summary  to  which  I  am  always  led  by  my  study  of  the  progress 
of  criticism  is  this :  that  it  has  come  down  from  higher  to  lower  places 
owing  to  some  forces  over  which  it  has  had  no  control ;  for  it  has  not 
yielded  its  pretensions  to  dictate  to  poet  or  reader  without  decided  strug- 
gles. The  forces  against  which  the  dogmatic  critic  has  contended  in 
vain  in  the  writer's  case  are  probably  as  potent  in  the  reader's  case. 
They  are,  I  suppose,  the  individual's  desire  for  self-expression.  In  the 
reader's  case  the  urge  toward  self-expression,  that  is,  the  artistic  im- 
pulse, may  not  be  so  compelling,  but  it  will  express  itself  in  choosing 
what  it  will  read,  thus  getting  a  second-hand  expression  of  itself. 

If  criticism  cannot  compel,  then  what  are  canons  for?    That  which 

97  — 4 


is  not  generally  accepted  has  no  validity.  There  are  no  aesthetic  sanc- 
tions upon  which  canons  may  be  built.  Each  artistic  expression  is  a 
case  by  itself ;  individual ;  to  be  judged  upon  its  own  merits.  Each 
reader  must  judge  for  himself;  no  one  can  judge  for  him;  no  one  can 
put  himself  at  the  center  of  the  experiences  which  a  man  has  under- 
gone, as  is  necessary  before  any  one  can  judge  for  him.  He  must  un- 
fortunately judge  for  himself. 

When  I  conclude  that  each  man  must  be  his  own  critic,  I  believe 
that  this  is  so  because  experience  plainly  points  this  as  the  conclusion. 
I  spoke  of  forces,  or  perhaps  I  should  have  said  facts,  which  academic 
criticism  had  been  unable  to  overcome.  I  have  wondered  how  this  could 
be  scientifically  explained.  It  has  seemed  by  some  process  of  intuition 
to  be  eminently  right  that  academic  or  formalist  criticism  should  be 
suspect  in  judgment  of  artistic  expression.  I  have  felt  (I  use  the  word 
advisedly)  that  a  scientific,  analytic  process  of  mind,  which  differs  al- 
most diametrically  frdih  an  artistic,  creative  process,  could  not  in  any 
case  be  a  final  judge  of  the  activities  of  the  latter.  It  has  seemed  that 
minds  must  be  similarly  tempered  for  one  to  interpret  the  other.  Of 
course,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  prove  this.  It  does  not  seem  to  be  a  matter 
susceptible  to  proof.  If  it  is  asked,  I  shall  have  to  say  that  I  know  it, 
as  I  know  many  things  I  cannot  prove.  In  default  of  proof  I  can  avail 
myself  of  the  testimony  of  Croce  on  aesthetics.  His  testimony  points 
to  the  conclusion  that  to  feel  this  to  be  true  is  the  only  way  to  know 
it  to  be  true. 

Croce  sets  himself  squarely  against  all  Aristotelian  and  academic 
criticism.  He  distinguishes  logic  from  intuition  by  saying  that  logic 
deals  with  the  apprehension  of  relationships,  of  universals;  intuition, 
with  the  apprehension  of  the  particular,  the  individual.  The  act  of  in- 
tuition is  the  act  of  expression:  all  expression  is  "art",  and  all  art  is 
expression.  The  creative  act  in  art  is  the  act  of  expression  in  the  mind 
of  the  artist :  the  material  execution  of  the  work  of  art  is  posterior  to 
the  creative  act,  of  which  it  is  only  a  copy.  The  insistence  by  Croce 
upon  the  intuitive  nature  of  art  destroys  the  critical  value  of  rhetorical 
categories,  and  the  terminology  of  literary  genres  and  artistic  classi- 
fications becomes  devoid  of  sense,  since  each  production  is  a  work  sui 
generis,  representing  a  moment,  a  mental  state,  that  has  intrinsically 
nothing  to  do  with  any  other  mental  state.  "The  function  of  criticism 
becomes  primarily  interpretative,  its  object  being  to  reconstruct  the 
mental  state  in  its  causal  and  final  elements.  The  aesthetic  judgment 
is  possible  only  with  reference  to  the  intention  of  the  artist  and  to  the 
extent  to  which  the  purpose  has  been  realized." 

This  is  a  rather  more  clearly  stated  conception  of  what  I  have  tried 

>8 


to  make  clear  to  myself  by  saying  that  there  has  seemed  to  me  to  be  an 
incompatibility  between  the  artistic,  creative  mind  and  the  formalistic, 
analytic  mind ;  and  by  saying  that  logic,  or  abstract  reasoning  should  be 
suspect  in  any  realm  but  that  of  pure  intellect.  It  is  the  thing  we  have 
in  mind  when  we  suspect  the  method  of  rhetoric  for  the  teaching  of 
composition  in  English.  For  the  method  of  analysis,  of  determination 
of  general  principles,  which  is  the  method  of  rhetoric,  does  not  lead  to 
the  act  of  creation  or  composition.  In  proportion  as  composition  is 
considered  to  be  creation  in  any  way,  analysis  cannot  be  a  successful 
teaching  method,  because  it  exercises  a  function  of  the  mind  at  the  op- 
posite pole  from  that  which  should  be  strengthened. 

If  scientific  explanation  regarding  what  we  practice  and  believe  in 
criticism  is  regarded  as  essential,  Croce's  will  serve.  It  is  especially 
satisfactory,  now  that  the  question  of  criticism  is  one  of  aesthetics,  in 
which  field  the  special  investigators  should  be  authority,  to  find  one  of 
the  most  considerable  figures  denying  that  there  can  be  any  general 
principles  of  pleasure  in  literature.  But  I  do  not  suppose  that  the  aca- 
demic mind  will  be  satisfied  with  such  a  theory.  With  it,  the  fear  of 
the  prevailing  of  unformed  opinion  amounts  to  an  obsession.  And  the 
matter  is  ultimately,  as  before  stated,  a  matter  of  disposition ;  there  will 
always  be  those  who  will  depend  upon  authorities  in  aesthetic,  as  in 
other  matters.  It  suggests  nothing  to  this  kind  of  mind  that  the  entire 
course  of  civilization  has  been  toward  discovering  the  last  individual, 
revealing  him,  and  guaranteeing  his  integrity.  That  has  been  the  pre- 
occupation of  all  the  liberal  movements  in  history.  Civilization  has 
been  the  freeing  of  class  after  class  from  political  and  social  disabilities, 
and  after  the  freeing  of  classes  the  discovery  of  individuals  in  them. 
But  your  true  conservative  will  not  face  the  implications  of  facts  which 
are  so  patent.  Even  if  he  admit  that  the  trend  of  government  is  in  the 
direction  of  more,  or  purer,  democracy ;  somehow  he  does  not  see  there 
are  more  things  involved  in  this  than  are  written  into  his  philosophy. 
And  one  of  these,  surely,  is  this,  that  democracy  is  based  upon  the  in- 
tegrity of  the  individual,  intellectually,  morally,  and  so  on.  The  ob- 
vious device  for  denying  this  is  stoutly  to  avow  in  public  one's  belief  in 
democracy,  and  covertly  to  sneer  at  the  mob,  and  the  demagog.  The 
difficulty  with  such  a  one  is  that  he  does  not  believe  in  democracy  at  all. 
It  is  something  he  does  not  understand.  He  is  really  an  aristocrat  in 
his  political  beliefs — one  who  believes  that  the  so-called  mob  is  in- 
capable of  interpreting  its  own  desires,  and  governing  its  own  concerns, 
except  through  his  mediation.  Naturally  such  men  will  contend  that 
the  question  of  literary  interpretation  is  not  for  the  individual  alone, 
but  one  for  qualified  mediators  to  determine  for  him. 

99 


Aristotle,  with  all  his  keenness  in  analysis,  could  not  have  set  up 
standards  of  literary  excellence  which  would  be  acceptable  to  us  today. 
It  is  only  necessary  to  recall  his  theory  of  the  slave  as  presented  in  the 
Politics — Some  men  are  born  slave,  not  by  position,  but  by  nature. 
Even  if  his  criticism  of  literature  seemed  acceptable,  its  association 
with  that  theory  of  state  would  vitiate  it  for  me.  And  similarly  with 
the  theories  of  criticism  and  society  held  in  subsequent  times.  The 
elevation  of  Aristotle's  principles  into  dogmas,  under  the  influence  of 
scholasticism  was  coincident  with  the  institution  of  serfdom.  I  should 
not  be  inclined  to  accept  a  criticism  which  would  harmonize  with  this 
social  conception.  The  criticism  of  the  Renaissance,  coexisting  with, 
an  expression  of,  the  various  more  or  less  absolutist  forms  of  govern- 
ment of  those  times  could  not  be  acceptable  to  me.  It  was  not  until  the 
romantic  criticism  came,  along  with  the  great  democratic  movement 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  that  the  individual  came  into  the  right  of  full 
recognition,  and  received  free  franchise,  in  theory  at  least,  to  partici- 
pate in  the  affairs  of  society,  of  whatever  nature.  It  is  the  concern  of 
governments  today  to  translate  into  reality  that  which  is  universally 
held  in  theory,  that  the  individual  is  worthy  of  respect,  in  whatever 
position  he  may  be  found.  The  many  consciously  and  unconsciously 
socialistic  movements  are  merely  the  demands  among  individuals  that 
society  make  good  its  promise  that  they  be  made  equal.  Socialism  ts 
individualism  seeking  the  aid  of  society.  Everything  points  toward  the 
increasing  significance  of  the  individual,  toward  his  entire  release  from 
all  leading  strings,  especially  in  the  matter  of  judging  his  own  likes  and 
dislikes.  By  analogy  from  the  course  of  government  then,  the  individ- 
ual should  be  the  ultimate  authority  in  matters  of  criticism.  He  Is 
master  of  himself  politically,  why  not  artistically?  There  is  less  chance 
of  his  going  wrong  in  the  case  of  his  likes  and  dislikes,  than  in  the  more 
intellectual  processes  of  government. 

There  was  a  time  when  literature  was  a  concern  of  a  few  both  to 
write  and  to  read.  Then  the  few  might  justly  lay  down  laws,  for  such 
concerned  only  themselves.  But  more  and  more  men  have  come  into 
the  means  of  reading  and  writing,  by  the  cheapening  of  the  processes 
of  communicating  thought.  And  the  time  comes  in  which  each  man 
may  hope  to  become  the  possessor  of  the  world's  selected  literature.  As 
possessor  of  this  literature,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word  possess,  his 
judgment  is  as  good  as  the  best.  The  publisher  who  cheapens  the  price 
of  books  is  the  critic  who  does  most  to  guard  against  the  prevalence  of 
"unformed"  opinion.  Everyman's  edition  of  world  literature  has  done 
more  already  to  establish  sound  opinion,  I  imagine,  than  the  labors  of 
all  the  critics. 


Turn  to  the  religious  analogy.  In  almost  all  forms  of  the  church 
today  the  individual  is  free.  He  believes  what  he  chooses  regardless  of 
the  creed  that  he  may  profess.  He  regards  no  one  as  qualified  to  tell 
him  what  he  shall  believe,  certainly  not  the  man  who  is  supposed  by  his 
position  to  be  authority  for  him.  He  prepares  his  own  belief  from  his 
own  moral,  emiotional,  and  intellectual  experiences.  The  pastor  oc- 
cupies the  place  of  the  critic ;  he  is  permitted  to  talk,  and  is  liked  or  dis- 
liked, for  his  personality;  but  he  is  by  no  means  authority.  For  the 
layman  has  now  the  privilege,  along  with  his  pastor,  to  read  and  criti- 
cize the  religious  literature  which  at  one  time  it  was  the  privilege  of  the 
initiated  few  to  read.  This  literature  too  he  interprets  for  himself; 
and  enjoys  his  pastor's  interpretation  on  the  Sabbath  day,  or  not,  as  it 
agrees  or  not  with  his  interpretation.  In  fact  religious  problems  of 
today  are  often  being  presented  through  literature  by  laymen  for  solu- 
tion. The  Inside  of  the  Cup,  to  mention  one  of  the  most  popular,  is  an 
■  apology  for  individualism.  Now  if  the  lay  individual  exercises  this 
right  in  religious  matters,  he  should  likewise  in  literary;  for  these  are 
near  akin.  Thus  the  religious  analogy  points  toward  the  futility  of 
canons  of  criticism. 

It  does  not  seem  necessary  to  multiply  instances  to  show  that  the 
individual  is  coming  into  his  own  in  our  society.  Theoretically  he  has 
arrived ;  practically  every  effort  is  being  made  to  accommodate  him. 
Theoretically  every  man  is  capable  of  forming  his  own  literary  criti- 
cism ;  practically  every  effort  is  being  made  to  let  him  practice  his  criti- 
cal faculty.  Therefore  he  is  liberated  from  all  restrictions  of  canons 
in  literature.  For  every  age  its  own  apologists :  ours  is  one  of  powerful 
aspirations  for  the  individual ;  and  Croce  elaborates  an  aesthetic  which 
suits  this  spirit. 

A  word  or  two  as  to  that  "unformed"  opinion  that  the  academics 
are  gravely  concerned  about.  It  is  a  very  strange  truth  that  the  academic 
critic  must  appeal  to  precisely  this  unformed  opinion  for  its  suffrage. 
His  formed  opinion,  or  cultured  opinion,  will  prevail  with  them  just 
in  proportion  as  it  is  agreeable  to  them.  The  unformed  opinion  is  the 
court  of  last  resort;  that  it  often  prevails  against  the  most  valiant  ef- 
forts of  critics  to  prevent  it  is  the  commonplace  of  literary  history. 
If  the  critics  had  had  their  way  some  of  the  noblest  names  in  literature 
would  have  had  short  shrift.  The  critics  should  really  be  thankful  that 
there  is  an  unformed  opinion  to  set  them  right  when  they  are  on  their 
aberrations.  A  few  phrases  of  Shaw's  state  this  view  with  character- 
istic pungency : 

"When  the  true  prophet  speaks,  he  is  proved  to  be  both  rascal  and 
idiot,  not  by  those  who  have  read  of  how  foolishly  such  learned  demon- 

101 


strations  have  come  off  in  the  past,  but  by  those  who  have  themselves 
written  volumes  on  the  crucifixions,  the  headings  and  hangings,  the 
Siberia  transportations,  the  calumny  and  ostracism  which  had  been  the 
lot  of  the  pioneer  as  well  as  of  the  camp  follower.  It  is  from  men  of 
established  literary  reputations  that  we  learn  that  William  Blake  was 
mad,  that  Shelley  was  spoiled  by  living  in  a  low  set,  that  Robert  Owen 
was  a  man  who  did  not  know  the  world,  that  Ruskin  is  incapable  of 
understanding  political  economy,  that  Zola  is  a  mere  blackguard,  that 
'Ibsen  is  a  Zola  with  a  wooden  leg.'  The  great  musician,  accepted  by 
the  unskilled  listener,  is  vilified  by  his  fellow-musicians ;  it  is  the  musi- 
cal culture  of  Europe  that  pronounced  Wagner  the  inferior  of  Meyer- 
beer. The  great  artist  finds  his  foes  not  among  the  men  in  the  street: 
it  is  the  Royal  Academy  which  places  Mr.  Marcus  Stone — not  to  men- 
tion Mr.  Hodgson — above  Burne- Jones." 

I  remember  once  finding  Dr.  Johnson's  common  sense  speak  very 
plainly  against  his  doctrine,  in  a  criticism  on  Addison,  to  this  effect: 
■'About  things  on  which  the  public  thinks  long,  it  commonly  attains  to 
think  right."  This  was  his  approval  of  the  critical  judgment  current 
among  the  public  on  one  of  Addison's  dramas.  From  so  noteworthy 
a  champion  of  conservatism  as  Dr.  Johnson,  this  is  indeed  a  concession. 
Recently  I  read  in  a  popular  weekly  an  astonishing  corroboration  of  this 
theory  about  "unformed"  opinion  from  a  member  of  the  British  Foreign 
Office.  It  concerned  a  sphere  more  or  less  allied  to  literature — that  of 
the  press.  This  diplomat  holds  the  press  alone  responsible  for  the  petty 
spite,  the  unworthy  ridicule,  and  the  idle  boastfulness  which  has  been 
served  up  at  English  breakfast  tables  during  the  weary  months  of  the 
war.  "The  press,"  he  says,  "does  not  represent  the  people  of  this  coun- 
try, for  the  commonplace  man  in  the  street  has  springs  of  nobility  which 
the  editors  have  failed  to  discover,  and  the  antics  of  superficial  self- 
satisfaction  indulged  in  by  our  press  bear  no  relation  whatever  to  the 
slowly  accumulating  reserve  of  determination  which  characterizes  our 
people."  This  official  thereupon  expresses  some  concern  about  the 
problem  of  the  press,  which  he  is  coming  more  and  more  to  feel  is  the 
greatest  problem  for  England  to  face  in  years  to  come.  "Its  claim  to 
voice  public  opinion  is  untrue,  because  it  really  succeeds  only  in  voicing 
the  upper  thoughts  of  our  unguarded  moments.  The  deeper  springs  of 
action  on  which  the  existence  of  society  depends  remain  unvoiced  and 
unencouraged."  The  official  we  quote  places  a  very  large  measure  of 
confidence  in  that  unformed  mob  which  the  academic  critics  fear.  He 
shows  clearly  what  happens  when  a  few  affect  to  think  for  the  many ; 
how  they  go  far  astray  and  must  be  led  back  to  sanity  by  the  many. 

Blake,  it  is  said,  was  mad.    This  is  his  advice  on  criticism:     "O 

102 


Englishmen !  know  that  every  man  ought  to  be  a  judge  of  pictures,  and 
every  man  is  so  who  is  not  connoisseured  out  of  his  senses."  It  is  rather 
fortunate  that  there  have  been  such  madmen  to  impart  such  a  note  of 
madness  to  criticism,  whenever  it  fell  to  wandering  around  the  arid, 
rational  sands  of  scholasticism.  Such  madmen  often  have  saved  litera- 
ture from  ultra-sanity. 

These  opinions  display  another  attitude  toward  the  mass  of  "un- 
formed" opinion  from  that  held  by  the  academics.  I  do  not  see  clearly 
why  he  who  believes  in  democracy  should  not  be  consistent  in  his  faith 
and  carry  it  out  in  other  departments  of  human  activity,  as  well  as  the 
political.  Just  as  the  politician  must  appeal  for  suffrage  to  his  con- 
stituency, to  the  mob,  composed  of  ordinary  individuals;  so  the  writer, 
in  a  democracy,  must  appeal  to  the  mob.  There  are  many  who  loudly 
protest  their  faith  in  democracy,  but  in  that  very  act  make  the  reserva- 
tion that  democracy  would  be  a  sound  doctrine  if  all  the  citizenry  were 
as  intelligent  as  they  are ;  and  therefore  resist  trusting  their  government 
in  the  hands  of  the  crowd,  if  by  any  means  they  can  prevent  it.  Repre- 
sentative democracy,  if  you  will,  but  no  referendum  or  initiative  folly. 
We  have  seen  often  and  again  the  very  essential  intelligence  of  a  state 
gathered  in  the  capital,  pondering  the  laws  in  a  manner  most  amazing 
to  the  unformed  yokels  at  home.  Whatever  the  form  of  the  govern- 
ment under  which  they  exist,  or  the  principles  to  which  they  be  com- 
mitted, men  of  this  type  of  mind,  good,  orthodox,  Aristotelian,  will  be 
there,  refusing  excellence  to  any  but  themselves. 


103 


THE  TURNING  POINT 


105 


THE  TURNING  POINT 

Rupert  Brooke,  who  served  for  a  time  as  a  symbol  of  England  facing 
a  new  destiny,  was  a  member  of  the  Dardanelles  expedition.  As  a  well- 
known  classical  scholar  he  would  quite  naturally  be  deeply  impressed 
when  he  found  himself  upon  a  mission  of  war  in  those  regions  where 
Greek  history  had  played  its  splendidly  recorded  events;  and  his 
thoughts  speculated  upon  what  fates  might  be  in  store  for  the  modern 
world  in  the  places  celebrated  by  ancient  glories.  In  a  letter  written 
on  his  approach  he  cries  in  wonder:  "Should  we  be  a  Turning  Point 
in  History  ?"  When  the  magnitude  of  the  events  which  caused  the  out- 
cry is  considered,  it  is  not  strange  that  he  should  have  wondered.  And 
although  he  himself  did  not  live  to  verify  his  speculation,  thinking  men, 
both  simple  and  illustrious,  assume  that  the  world  has  passed  the  point 
that  marks  a  new  era. 

History  may  be  like  a  certain  noted  view  of  life,  "a  tale  told  by  an 
idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury,  signifying  nothing,"  as  some  skeptical  his- 
torians are  inclined  to  affirm.  But  while  the  historians  are  settling  that 
basic  question  in  their  branch  of  learning,  let  it  be  accepted  that  it  has 
a  modicum  of  rationale,  and  that  the  historic  accounts  of  turning  points 
in  the  past,  placed  at  the  decisive  battles,  are  for  the  time  being  accept- 
able. It  would  then  seem  reasonable  that  this  war,  which  has  included 
in  its  tremendous  scope  nearly  all  the  fields  of  great  decisions;  which 
has  put  old  men  and  women  and  children  to  work,  and  starved  the 
dazed  inhabitants  on  the  far  edges  of  empire;  which  has  transported 
armies  across  the  seven  seas;  and  plentifully  sown  again  with  corpses 
the  already  fertile  battlegrounds  of  the  world; — it  would  seem  reason- 
able that  such  a  war  would  mark  a  change  in  the  tendencies  of  human 
thought  and  action.  Its  panorama  is  so  vast  and  its  implications  so  in- 
volved that  this  change  may  well  be  considered  in  terms  of  the  slow- 
moving  centuries,  which  seem  suddenly  to  have  been  telescoped  into  a 
few  years'  time.  To  consider  it  adequately  it  would  seem  necessary  to 
march  with  seven-league  boots  across  the  historical  records. 

It  is  customary  to  begin  a  review  of  our  culture  with  an  account 
of  our  inheritance  from  the  Greeks.  This  somewhat  cavalier  treatment 
of  the  pre-Grecian  civilizations  may  not  be  entirely  valid ;  but  the  meth- 
od may  be  justified  on  the  ground  that  each  subsequent  time  of  great 
decisions,  accompanied  by  great  accomplishments,  has  been  one  of 
awakened  admiration  of  Greek  culture.    The  signs  are  not  wanting  that 

107 


this  is  also  true  of  our  time  today ;  and  therefore  this  inquiry  may  begin 
with  a  summary  of  the  outstanding  traits  of  this  illuminating  Greek 
thought,  the  admiration  of  long  generations  of  critics. 

The  qualities  which  best  characterize  Greek  thought  are  realism, 
criticism,  and  humanism.  These,  like  all  the  qualities  of  things,  are, 
of  course,  interwoven  with  each  other  and  one  should  therefore  guard 
against  sharp  distinctions.  To  be  realistic  is  to  love  truth,  beauty, 
goodness,  freedom,  action,  intellectual  curiosity;  to  be  critical  is  to  be 
sensible,  clear,  and  rational,  with  a  view  to  right  understanding;  to  be 
humanistic  is  to  temper  these  two  qualities  to  each  other,  one  character- 
istic of  the  will  and  the  emotions,  and  the  other  characteristic  of  the 
reason,  so  that  harmony  of  life  may  result.  All  conspiring  together 
preserve  freedom  for  thought  and  action,  each  in  its  due  measure; 
these  lead  to  experiment,  observation,  inference,  and  analysis;  evalua- 
tion and  judgment  in  the  light  of  known  and  tested  experience  succeed ; 
and  these  in  turn  guarantee  freedom.  Thus  the  fruitful  round  continues 
until  the  introduction  of  some  other  than  human  sanction  or  authority 
limits  freedom  and  thus  vitiates  all  the  qualities  that  previously  flowed 
pure  from  that  source. 

Those  who  from  an  orthodox  religious  standpoint  first  encounter 
the  Greek  mythology  are  amused  by  a  work  of  such  childish  imagina- 
tion. They  would  scarcely  consider  it  as  an  expression  of  the  qualities 
just  enumerated.  Yet  a  more  intimate  acquaintance  and  just  considera- 
tion reveal  that  it  expresses  such  qualities.  Certain  observers  have  said 
that  the  Greek  mythology  is  a  sort  of  science,  a  startling  statement 
enough,  until  it  is  recalled  that  science  is  concerned  with  explaining 
the  mysterious  forces  that  surround  us,  precisely  what  mythology  at- 
tempted to  do.  The  mythological  explanation,  it  is  true,  did  not  make 
these  forces  available  to  mankind ;  but  it  served  the  urgent  need  of  mak- 
ing life  comfortable  and  attractive,  at  least,  by  giving  names  and  clearly 
intelligible  descriptions  to  these  forces.  That  it  amply  succeeded  in  this 
aim  is  shown  by  the  ardent  longing  for  some  similar  golden  age  evoked 
by  it  in  a  long  line  of  poets  and  thinkers,  upon  whom  their  several 
worlds  lay  all  too  heavily.  And  that  freedom  which  permitted  the 
Greeks  boldly  to  reason  concerning  the  ultimate  constitution  of  the  uni- 
verse, and  which  gave  them  the  privilege  of  creating  the  world,  like 
divine  artists,  in  their  own  image,  has  been  the  envy  of  subsequent  ages. 

These  simpler  anthropomorphic  reflections  of  the  Greeks  give  place, 
as  the  power  of  reflection  develops,  to  daring  hypotheses  concerning  the 
constitution  of  the  universe,  shrewd  guesses  based  upon  little  measured 
observation,  all  of  which  have  much,  though  less  obviously,  of  the  an- 
thropomorphic quality.    Contemporary  with  the  decay  of  typical  politi- 

108 


cal  institutions  there  occurs  a  new  development  in  thought;  and  men 
are  found  anxiously  inquiring  into  their  own  notions.  Since  the  ex- 
planation of  the  objective  universe  is  losing  its  power  to  satisfy  the 
curious,  and  orthodoxy  is  yielding  to  the  inevitable,  the  attention  of  as- 
tute inquirers  turns  to  the  problem  of  knowing  the  creator  of  the  ideas 
with  which  he  has  beguiled  himself.  It  is  a  time  for  the  revaluation  of 
currently  accepted  doctrines  and  principles.  If  man  be  the  measure  of 
all  things,  then  assuredly  the  measure  should  be  better  known.  "The 
fields  and  the  woods  have  nothing  to  teach  me,"  says  Socrates,  "I  learn 
my  lessons  from  men."    And  so  the  problem  for  man  is  to  know  himself. 

This  problem,  pursued  by  the  instrument  of  the  concept,  continued 
to  be  for  many  centuries  the  preoccupation  of  great  minds.  It  was 
eventually  crystallized  and  elaborated  by  the  Christian  religion  until 
it  reached  its  highest  point  of  development,  probably,  in  the  works  of 
St.  Thomas  Aquinas,  and  his  poetic  disciple  Dante,  as  the  study  of  the 
moral  nature  of  man.  The  Greek  gave  his  understanding  of  life  and 
nature  clear  objective  forms ;  the  mediaeval  poet  and  moralist  expressed 
his  understanding  of  life  by  a  complete  subjective  analysis.  The  one 
sought  to  make  man  comfortable  in  nature,  the  other  sought  to  make 
him  comfortable  (sometimes  by  the  threat  of  making  him  uncomfort- 
able) in  the  life  of  eternity.  The  Greek  was  an  inventor  and  builder 
of  states,  a  political  animal,  as  Aristotle  says,  because  he  must  save 
himself  in  this  life.  The  mediaeval  man  was  a  subtle  analyst  of  himself, 
because  he  must  prepare  himself  for  eternity.  The  future  life  cast  no 
appreciable  shadow  upon  the  Greek  world;  but  it  cast  a  dark  shadow 
upon  the  mediaeval  world  and  all  its  works.  When  man  may  gain 
eternal  happiness  by  his  service  in  this  life,  it  is  reasonable  to  assume 
that  he  will  strive  with  all  his  energy  to  earn  this  surpassing  reward. 
And  the  attempt  to  earn  this  reward  has  left  behind  it  monuments  of 
unequalled  abstract  reasoning  which,  like  the  colossal  remains  of  Egypt- 
ian civilization,  and  the  stupendous  armaments  of  the  Great  War,  make 
one  marvel  at  the  immense  futility  of  man. 

There  came  into  the  world  with  Socrates  and  lasted  up  till  the 
Renaissance,  "the  profound  illusion,"  says  Nietzsche,  "the  impertur- 
able  belief  that  by  means  of  the  clue  of  causality  thinking  reaches  to 
the  deepest  abysses  of  being,  and  that  thinking  is  able  not  only  to  per- 
ceive but  to  correct  it."  The  diligent  use  of  the  concept  and  the  syllog- 
ism to  explain  the  world  and  make  it  useful  had  led  to  circular  exercises 
in  verbal  mechanics,  beginning  in  a  concept  and  ending  in  eternity.  It 
required  but  a  glimpse  of  the  Hellenic  world  again  to  make  men  see 
beauty  around  them  and  to  express  it  in  a  glow  of  artistic  enthusiasm. 
The  world  was  joyously  accepted,  keenly  perceived,  and  represented  in 


109 


magnificent  plastic  forms.  The  Renaissance  replaced  the  concept  with 
artistic  representation. 

Bacon  substituted  for  fruitless  verbal  mechanism  fruitful  observa- 
ton,  generalization  and  inference.  If  nature,  approached  in  this  man- 
ner, refuse  to  yield  her  ultimate  secret,  still  she  grants  fruits  of  ex- 
traordinary variety  and  abundance.  She  reveals  herself  a  kind  mother 
indeed;  she  has  become  something  more  than  the  Greek's  beautiful  but 
inconstant  companion  of  man.  The  mediaeval  man's  imagined  source 
of  devils  and  imps  of  evil  has  become  a  benefactor  who  rewards  proper 
diligence.  Scholastic  speculation  looking  inward  becomes  science  look- 
ing outward.  Boundless  vistas  for  scientific  conjectures  appear  on 
every  hand.  Bold  spirits  sail  out  into  the  unknown  and  chart  it ;  and 
like  another  race  of  Titans  storm  the  very  heavens.  They  brook  no 
limits  to  their  desire  to  know  and  to  have.  A  Faust  will  sell  his  soul 
to  the  devil  that  he  may  have  knowledge;  Machiavelli's  Prince  will 
yield  himself  to  evil  that  he  may  have  dominion;  and  Michaelangelo's 
figures  are  tense  with  the  strain  of  monumental  aspiration.  Science, 
justifying  itself  by  its  fruits  and  thus  easily  disposing  of  the  skeptic, 
has  endowed  man's  spirit  with  an  endless  expansiveness.  There  is  no 
limit  set  beyond  which  man  may  not  inquire  into  nature.  And  each  in- 
quiry yields  a  new  wealth  of  material  things  to  stop  the  mouth  of  the 
prophet  of  evil.  Thus  science  by  yielding  to  man's  asking  a  store  of 
earthly  things  without  stint  or  limit,  arrogates  all  power  to  itself,  jyst 
as  scholasticism  held  power  since  it  was  able  to  grant  man  the  eternal 
delights  of  heaven  for  the  asking.  But  man  lives  no  more  by  bread 
alone  than  he  lives  without  bread  entirely.  The  restless  expansiveness, 
the  ruthless  exploitation,  the  grasping  imperialism,  the  colossal  ac- 
quisitiveness, the  endless  outward  view,  leading  to  action  without  pur- 
pose ;  these  approach  an  end  after  all,  either  a  limit  humanly  devised,  or, 
as  the  world's  state  has  recently  shown,  destruction.  The  new  philoso- 
phy begins  to  ask  science  of  what  avail  its  abundant  fruits  are.  Shall 
man  perish  in  their  midst  ? 

The  sober  man  accumulates  what  is  necessary  for  the  enrichment 
of  his  personal  life ;  for  security,  for  leisure,  and  then  for  self-cultiva- 
tion ;  for  things  which  reflection  values.  It  is  a  means  to  an  end.  But 
the  modern  accumulator,  as  he  turns  from  his  task  to  make  himself  a 
man,  having  no  knowledge  how  to  proceed,  lapses  back  into  accumula- 
tion. The  end  for  which  action  exists  must  not  be  too  far  postponed 
lest  action  become  its  own  end,  and  meaningless. 

While  the  fruits  of  the  earth  accumulate,  the  problem  of  their 
utilization  remains  unsolved.  Men  weary  of  harking  forward  to  some 
far-off  divine  event,  and  losing  life  in  the  meantime.    But  life  is  the 

110 


solving  of  the  problem  in  the  going,  "solvitur  ambulando" ;  and  that 
involves  finding  the  human  value  for  science  and  for  industry.  There- 
fore it  becomes  necessary  to  study  man  as  he  really  is  in  all  his  divine 
complexity  in  order  that  the  end  of  richness  in  life  for  v^rhich  all  the 
wrorks  of  man  exist  may  be  made  known  and  effective.  When  man  ex- 
isted for  the  sake  of  his  works,  his  life  was  lost.  Under  ecclesiasticism 
he  was  the  spawn  of  an  original  sin;  under  industrialism  he  was  a 
simple  abstraction ;  under  science  he  is  a  mechanism ;  and  man  is  a  slave 
to  his  own  mind's  vagaries.  But  when  these  many  activities  of  man 
exist  for  him,  his  nature  being  rightly  understood,  he  becomes  a  master 
of  the  fulnesses  of  living. 

Ruskin's  conventional  and  unanalytic  picture  of  the  man  who  is  at 
the  center  of  all  economic  endeavor  leads  through  long  and  patient  an- 
thropomorphic studies  down  to  modern  social  psychology.  When  man's 
nature  becomes  known  as  it  really  is,  the  phrase  "human  valuation" 
acquires  content  and  effective  meaning,  and  attempts  are  constantly  made 
to  give  science  and  industry  purpose  and  effectiveness  in  the  light  of  the 
new  learning.  Thus  the  persistent  mediaeval  quest  into  man's  ultimate 
moral  nature  returns  into  life  again;  but  in  another  form  and  with  an- 
other purpose.  Its  form  is  now  that  of  science,  instead  of  formal  logic; 
and  its  purpose  is  life  here  instead  of  hereafter.  Man,  the  measure 
of  all  things,  is  to  be  understood  as  he  is  instead  of  as  he  ought  to  be. 
He  becomes  again  the  first  study  of  mankind.  That  long  and  patient 
study  begun  by  Socrates  and  culminating  in  the  middle  ages  is  again 
resumed. 

But  it  is  resumed  in  the  realistic  spirit  of  the  Greeks,  unhampered 
by  theological  preconceptions,  and  unlimited  by  superhuman  sanctions. 
It  is  also  critical ;  and  criticism  is  the  frank  acceptance  of  the  human 
quality  in  all  things.  One  must  judge  because  one  is  human ;  and  to 
criticize  is  to  judge.  One  must  estimate  values  in  terms  of  the  crystal- 
lized experience  of  the  individual  and  the  race.  What  the  race  has 
found  to  be  valuable  in  the  judgment  of  the  wise,  although  it  may  be 
somewhat  contemptuously  called  merely  prejudice  and  moralistic,  is 
after  all  the  touchstone  whereby  all  human  conceptions  and  all  human 
labors  will  be  judged.  The  new  orientation  centers  around  a  core  of 
humanistic  realism.  The  new  realism  looks  at  the  universe  without 
bias,  either  ecclesiastical  or  scientific;  and  the  new  humanism  inter- 
prets its  data  in  the  light  of  their  simple  human  origin.  Man  makes  his 
universe;  therefore  he  should  make  it  useful  for  himself.  Science  is 
the  instrument  with  which  he  has  been  building  it ;  but  it  has  not  always 
been  useful  for  him,  since  he  has,  more  often  than  not,  regarded  the 
instrument  as  something  greater  than  himself. 


Ill 


Among  the  devices  which  subordinates  a  man  to  his  thought  is 
that  of  conceiving  of  the  universe  as  a  unity.  Henry  Adams  in  his 
Education  has  given  an  account  of  his  vain  pursuit  of  that  conception 
in  history,  and  ultimately  in  science,  from  which  the  historical  con- 
ception had  come.  Since  the  early  gropings  after  it  among  the  reflec- 
tive Greeks,  it  had  grown  in  power  and  influence,  associated  with  var- 
ious great  expressions  of  imperial  ambition  to  which  it  was  a  congenial 
aid,  such  as  the  Roman  Empire  and  the  Universal  Church,  until  it 
reached  a  zenith  in  the  modern  scientific  and  mechanistic  sense,  as- 
sociated with  imperial  industrialism.  Adams,  however,  applying  a  real- 
istic measure,  is  unable  to  find  in  the  multiform  complexity  of  the  world 
any  manifestation  of  this  unity.  He  finds  rather  in  the  last  resort, 
when  he  applies  to  the  more  reflective  scientists,  that  even  they  are  un- 
able to  discover  the  unity  that  was  supposed  to  underlie  all  science. 
They  assert  that  order  and  reason,  beauty  and  benevolence,  are  con- 
ceptions solely  associated  with  the  mind  of  man  and  cannot  be  projected 
beyond  it.  Necessity  cannot  be  inferred  in  that  which  lies  beyond 
sense-impressions  since  it  is  a  concept  formed  by  the  mind  of  man  on 
this  side  of  sense-impressions.  And  chaos,  therefore,  is  all  that  can  be 
asserted  of  the  super-sensuous.  The  scientists  themselves  thus  insist 
that  the  world  is  one  of  multiplicity  rather  than  of  unity  alone. 

"This  sublime  metaphysical  illusion,"  as  Nietzsche  says,  "that  by 
means  of  the  clue  of  causality  thinking  reaches  to  the  deepest  abysses 
of  being  and  that  thinking  is  not  only  able  to  perceive  but  also  to  cor- 
rect it,  is  added  as  an  instinct  to  science  and  again  and  again  leads  the 
latter  to  its  limits  where  it  must  change  into  art ;  which  is  really  the  end 
to  be  attained  by  this  mechanism."  It  seems  then  that  science  has  been 
led  to  its  limits,  when  it  must  change  into  art.  If  it  be  not  changed  into 
art,  its  ends  dangle  vainly  in  the  inane  and  it  remains  purposeless  and 
meaningless,  blind  leader  of  the  blind. 

The  world  will  probably  admit  now  at  once  that  science  is  a  mech- 
anism, the  most  powerful  and  efficient  of  the  tools  devised  by  man. 
But  no  tool,  from  the  simplest  stone  axe  to  the  most  complex  intellect- 
ual conception,  can  remain  an  end  in  itself.  Whatever  issues  from  the 
human  brain  must  somehow  serve  to  enrich  life;  it  must  somehow  re- 
turn to  that  life  from  which  it  sprang,  with  interest.  But  mere  mechan- 
ism neither  explains,  as  Nietzsche  says,  nor  does  it  return  comfort  and 
solace  to  its  deviser.  Art  is  the  peculiar  activity  of  mankind  which 
most  adequately  serves  that  use.  The  great  poets  have  been  the  most 
deeply  religious  of  men.  And  such  art  as  theirs  is  more  nearly  an  end 
in  itself  than  any  other  human  expression.  It  attempts  to  give  an  ex- 
planation of  life  by  imitation,  by  analogy,  by  likeness.     Farther  than 

112 


that  man  cannot  go.  If  Ihe  tools,  which  he  builds  become  more  flexible, 
subtle,  and  powerful,  he  should  by  means  of  them  return  more  adequate 
analogies  of  life  whereby  to  explain  it. 

The  Greek  mythology  has  been  called  a  science ;  but  it  is  rather  an 
artistic  and  religious  transformation  into  art  of  such  science  as  was 
then  known.  It  may  be  derided  as  a  simple  animism,  but  unlike  other 
animisms,  it  exhibits  a  clear  and  rational  attitude  towards  the  world 
and  makes  explanations  which  are  purely  personal,  and  therefore  illum- 
inating, not  grotesque  and  obscure.  It  reveals  a  rational  sense  of  the 
limitations  of  thought  in  that  it  does  not  try  to  make  extra-human  ex- 
planations. Just  as  the  sciences,  each  in  its  respective  groups  of  data, 
apply  to  these  the  conceptions  of  reason  and  order  which  are  innate  in 
the  observer  and  do  not  assume  that  the  inferences  from  one  are  neces- 
sarily valid  in  every  other,  so  the  early  Greeks  applied  to  the  forces 
within  and  without  themselves  interpretations  that  have  exactly  the  or- 
der to  be  found  in  human  beings  and  concretely  visualized  them  thus; 
that  is,  when  their  science  reached  its  limits,  it  changed  into  art.  Each 
force  or  group  of  phenomena  had  its  own  individual  representation  not 
transferable  to  any  other.  They  were  polytheists,  and  their  thought  was 
frankly  anthropomorphic.  Theirs  was  a  multiple  world,  with  a  dim 
Fate  in  the  background. 

There  are  now  probably  more  sciences  than  the  Greeks  had  gods 
and  spirits ;  and  each  rules  over  its  own  particular  sphere  of  nature. 
Each  is  a  group  of  observations  arranged  into  an  order  of  some  human 
kind ;  and  by  human  kind  is  meant  according  to  some  analogy  taken 
from  human  experience.  If  it  seems  absurd  to  compare  these  sciences 
with  the  elder  mythology,  it  might  be  asked  what  will  be  thought  of 
these  sciences  at  a  time  as  remote  from  us  in  the  future  as  we  are  dis- 
tant from  the  Greeks.  They  will  probably  have  become  a  very  strange 
mythology  indeed.  And  if  it  be  objected  that  the  gods  and  spirits  oT 
the  Greek  world  were  never  known  in  the  concrete,  whereas  science 
works  with  tangible  objects  and  achieves  predicted  results,  it  might  be 
answered  that  when  the  greater  scientists  exercise  their  imaginations 
to  understand  the  real  nature  of  things,  the  world  is  reduced  to  a  sys- 
tem of  hypotheses  and  formulae  which  surely  are  as  intangible  as  the 
gods  and  spirits,  without  their  saving  grace  of  offering  comfort  and 
solace  to  the  general  mind. 

There  are  many  sciences,  not  one.  If  we  suspect  one  science  with  its 
general  behind  all  these  multiple  things,  so  long  as  this  is  a  mere  conjec- 
ture, it  seems  unnecessary  to  arrange  the  world,  humanly  speaking,  as 
if  this  were  known;  which  has  so  often  happened  under  one  or  another 
form  of  absolutism.     Behind  the  Greek  gods  was  a  dimly  suspected 

113 


Fate ;  but  Fate,  as  interpreted  by  some  group  of  human  beings,  was  not 
permitted  to  rule  life.  So  long  as  dim  mysterious  presences  are  merely 
suspected,  it  may  as  well  be  conjectured  that  "above  all  law  is  human- 
ity." And  in  making  this  conjecture  there  is  something  definite  to  work 
with,  if  men  would  know  more  nearly  what  it  is  that  limits  their  wills, 
in  so  far  as  a  knowledge  of  mankind  with  its  infinitely  variable  rela- 
tionships, in  which  all  individuals  are  involved,  may  be  comprehendingly 
utilized  for  their  advantage.  There  are  order  and  reason  in  the  uni- 
verse in  just  the  measure  that  these  are  found  in  the  personality  that 
imputes  it  to  his  environment.  But  that  the  order  and  reason  that  is 
found  in  any  one  personality  shall  be  the  order  for  all  is  no  longer  pos- 
sible. Such  order  as  may  exist  must  be  built  up  by  agreement  among 
the  many,  assuming  them  to  be  conscious  and  tolerant  of  each  other, 
and  able  to  understand  that  each  man's  world  is  different  from  every 
other's.  An  order  thus  built  up  by  understanding  and  agreement,  and 
comprehensible  to  him  who  accepts  it,  is  a  guarantee  of  freedom  and 
all  its  fruits  as  they  were  enjoyed  under  the  Greek  dispensation.  And 
since  this  is  an  order  that  is  found  in  the  human  personality,  it  becomes 
vitally  necessary  that  this  mysterious  entity  be  understood.  In  this 
very  sense  there  is  a  movement  in  the  world  towards  right  understand- 
ing, a  new  humanism.  "Values  must  be  discovered  and  produced  in  a 
world  of  experience  before  they  can  be  conceived  or  assumed  to  exist 
in  a  higher  world;  the  other  world  must  always  be  derived  from  this 
world ;  it  can  never  be  a  primary  concept.  It  changes  with  the  changes 
of  this  world."  This  is  true  under  whatever  auspices  the  dogmatism 
may  be  promulgated. 

The  new  tide  ebbs  away  from  the  pursuit  of  an  elusive  unity,  in- 
evitable accompaniment  of  practical  absolutism.  It  flows  strongly 
towards  multiplicity;  yet  it  does  not  reduce  the  world  to  a  chaos. 
Neither  was  the  multiform  and  beautifully  diversified  world  of  the 
myths  a  chaos.  The  mind  of  man  persists  in  seeing  the  world  under 
the  appearance  of  order;  but  it  must  always  be  emphasized  that  this 
order  is  not  a  concept,  or  a  mechanism,  or  syllogism;  but  that  of  the 
full  human  personality.  While  the  early  Greek  view  of  it  was  ingenu- 
ously anthropomorphic,  the  modern  accords  with  the  more  adequate 
understanding  of  the  human  being  which  modern  humanistic  studies 
provide. 

Philosophic  thought  has  progressed  systematically  in  this  direction 
from  the  empiricist  turning  point  of  some  two  centuries  ago.  Recently 
it  has  emerged  through  many  varieties  of  vitalism  in  the  extreme  form 
of  psychological  vitalism,  or  personalism,  which  regards  the  universe  as 
constituted  by  an  infinitely  great  number  of  interrelated  selves.  Whereas, 


114 


it  is  said,  the  selfless  or  impersonal  idea,  like  the  impersonal  value,  is 
an  abstraction  from  the  concretely  real  self,  "the  world  as  mental,  in- 
evitably is  a  world  made  up  not  of  ideas,  or  mental  processes,  but  of 
selves."  Whatever  may  be  said  of  this  as  an  advanced  view,  it  may  be 
taken  to  indicate  a  main  trend  towards  humanism. 

The  tide  has  ebbed  slowly  away  from  the  mechanistic  unity  that 
accompanied  industrialism,  just  as  it  ebbed  away  from  the  verbally 
mechanistic  unity  that  accompanied  imperial  ecclesiasticism.  The  Turn- 
ing Point  has  been  passed  and  it  flows  again  towards  a  human  interpreta- 
tion of  those  things  which  are  human  inevitably.  Men  try  to  see  the 
world  as  it  really  is  to  each  individual,  and  to  build  it  up  for  the  pur- 
poses of  life  by  agreement  among  each  other,  making  its  order  that 
which  comes  from  an  interrelation  of  personalities.  The  evidences  of 
these  things  are  to  be  seen  on  every  hand.  In  the  industrial  life,  after 
many  years  of  haphazard  legal  tinkering,  the  last  change  impends  where- 
by men  shall  determine  for  themselves  their  parts  in  industrial  organi- 
zations. In  government  centuries  of  organic  development  has  evolved 
that  anomaly  among  world  empires,  the  British,  an  imperial  association 
of  free  governments,  bound  together  by  moral  ties  rather  than  by  legal 
sanctions.  And  the  League  of  Nations  comes  as  a  further  universal 
extension  of  this  principle  of  organization,  the  only  one  which  has  so 
far  proved  that  it  has  the  qualities  of  growth  and  permanence.  For 
such  conceptions  of  organization  knowledge  and  understanding  of  hu- 
manity are  needed.  That  this  is  being  garnered  is  shown  by  such  a  phen- 
omenon as  realism  in  literature.  For  realism  can  ultimately  be  little  else 
than  a  sincere  and  faithful  recording  of  the  universe  as  it  appears  to 
each  individual;  and  in  proportion  as  it  comes  to  be  known  that  each 
record  must  be  different  from  every  other,  understanding  and  tolera- 
tion ensue.  In  realism  the  eighteenth  century  romanticism,  collateral 
of  the  democratic  movement,  comes  to  full  fruit.  There  must  be  real 
understanding  of  the  varieties  of  men  as  well  as  a  passion  for  humanity 
in  the  abstract  before  there  can  be  real  democracy.  In  that  branch  of 
literature  known  as  journalism  there  appear  increasingly  new  members 
of  what  may  be  called  the  free  press.  And  this  is  also  an  expression  of 
the  desire  to  know  the  free  and  untrammeled  opinions  of  men  as  in- 
dividuals in  place  of  those  which  are  guided  or  controlled  by  corporate 
interests.  The  oldtime  fiction  of  the  soulless  corporation,  like  that  of 
national  sovereignty  above  all  human  law  and  morality,  no  longer  holds. 
It  is  known  that  individuals  conceal  themselves  behind  these  specious 
pretences.  It  is  therefore  demanded  that  purely  personal  opinions  be 
made  known  as  personal  and  that  fictions  be  dispensed  with.  In  educa- 
tion it  is  more  clearly  realized  that  the  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man, 

115 


not  only  historically  and  scientifically,  but  concretely  in  the  student  him- 
self, for  he  is  also  a  man.  Therefore  studies  tend  to  group  themselves 
around  anthropological  centers;  and  the  development  of  individual 
powers  and  character  becomes  paramount  in  all  instruction. 

These  new  attitudes  reveal  how  men  become  realists  again,  looking 
through  their  own  eyes,  not  through  the  spectacles  provided  by  inter- 
ested concept-makers.  And  so  they  judge  the  things  that  they  see  and 
try  to  know  in  the  light  of  their  own  experiences  and  that  which  is  ac- 
ceptable to  them.  They  are  critical ;  not  by  the  measuring-rule  of  codi- 
fied principles,  but  by  the  standards  of  the  best  lives.  And  in  being  thus 
critical,  they  are  humanistic.  In  this  direction  they  have  been  tending 
against  enormous  obstacles — obstacles  so  great  that  the  riddance  of 
them  has  almost  wrecked  mankind.  But  with  the  end  of  the  Great 
War,  and  the  coming  of  peace,  the  painful  convalescence  begins. 

Rupert  Brooke  might  well  ask,  "Should  we  be  a  Turning  Point  in 
History?"  as  he  thought  of  battles  fought  to  make  possible  the  glorious 
light  of  Greek  culture.  The  war  in  which  he  becomes  a  hero  is  the 
turning  point  into  a  culture  even  more  glorious,  it  is  to  be  hoped.  It 
will  be  made  possible  by  applying  a  similar  realistic,  human  vision  to 
the  marvellous  instruments  that  man  has  since  fashioned  for  himself. 


116 


A  MODERN  DANTE 


117 


A  MODERN  DANTE 

In  the  dedication  of  his  Toward  the  Gulf,  Edgar  Lee  Masters  ac- 
knowledges the  immediate  source  of  the  inspiration  for  his  Spoon  River 
Anthology.  From  contemplation  of  the  epitaphs  of  the  Greek  Anthol- 
ogy, he  says,  his  hand  unconsciously  strayed  to  the  preliminary  sketches 
which  were  in  time  to  grow  into  his  own  work.  And  the  familiarity 
with  Homer,  the  result  of  an  annual  reading  for  many  years,  he  feels, 
had  its  influence  both  as  to  form  and  spirit.  He  concludes  with  the 
statement  that  the  confessional  might  have  been  pursued  farther,  and 
thus  leaves  the  way  open  for  conjectures  as  to  other  possible  influences 
upon  his  Anthology. 

In  that  work  he  explicitly  mentions  three  great  poets:  Homer, 
Dante,  and  Whitman.  This  fact  offers  clues  for  investigation.  Hom- 
er's influence  has  been  acknowledged.  Whitman  has  been  an  example 
in  the  attempt  to  picture  the  life  of  America,  to  mirror  the  age  and 
country  of  the  next  generation  after  him.  There  remains  Dante.  Is 
it  not  likely  that  Dante  also  is  responsible  for  something  of  the  spiritual 
and  ethical  quality  of  his  poem  ? 

Many  readers  feel  that  Dante  is  an  influence  both  as  to  form  and 
spirit,  and  the  clue,  offered  above,  may  therefore  be  worth  pursuing. 
The  mediaeval  poet  has  a  certain  advantage  over  the  modern  moralist 
in  that  the  theology  of  his  time,  which  he  frankly  accepted,  provided  him 
with  a  fixed  architectonic  form,  and  through  that,  with  a  large  part  of 
the  spiritual  meaning  of  his  work.  The  modern  moralist,  setting  him- 
self the  same  spiritual  goal,  has  to  be  content  with  presenting  merely 
the  authentic  records  of  the  spirits  that  lie  sleeping  on  the  hill  in  the 
Spoon  River  cemetery.  Conformable  to  the  claims  of  a  catholic  church, 
Dante  has  the  advantage  of  speaking  for  the  spirits  of  all  times  and  all 
places,  while  the  modern's  spirit  world  is  somewhat  parochial,  although 
sometimes  a  Father  Malloy  or  an  Edith  Conant  may  be  indirectly  in- 
cluded, and  we  may  be  told  of  the  presence  of  such  remoter  spirits  as 
Homer  and  Dante.  Yet  much  of  the  same  effects  as  those  of  Dante's 
elaborate  tripartite  abode  of  spirits  in  the  after  life  are  contrived  by 
Master's  simple  device  of  the  Spoon  River  cemetery. 

The  modern  poet,  however,  reveals  less,  and  perhaps  knows  less, 
about  the  final  abode  than  Homer  knew  of  Hades.  What  he  knows  is 
common  knowledge:  that  a  cemetery  is  a  place  where  spirits  may  be 
found.  To  learn  that  these  spirits,  who  are  supposed  to  have  unlocked 
the  last  mystery,  cannot  agree  upon  the  facts  of  their  own  interrelated 

319 


experiences,  is  disconcerting ;  because  the  device  is  chosen  in  order  that 
we  may  be  sure  of  the  very  truth.  Dante's  spirits  agree;  they  have 
found  truth.  But  to  find  truth  is  perhaps  a  small  matter  in  modern 
spirit-abodes.  Or  is  the  truth  too  fluctuant  nowadays  to  be  entirely 
grasped?  However,  much  of  the  effect  of  Dante's  poem  may  be  de- 
rived out  of  the  simple  device ;  the  little  cemetery  may  possibly  be  plot- 
ted into  a  hell,  purgatory  and  paradise.  In  any  event  Dante  is  an  inter- 
esting guide  to  the  spirit-world,  and  he  should  have  a  certain  compet- 
ence after  his  journey  with  Virgil  and  Beatrice.  He  may  have  given 
spiritual  aid  to  Masters,  just  as  he  in  turn  received  and  acknowledged 
it  from  Virgil. 

The  form  of  Masters'  verse  has  been  the  cause  of  tempests  enough, 
it  is  to  be  hoped;  all  of  which  was  no  doubt  foreseen  by  the  resolute 
moralist.  Dante  speaks  for  him  in  this  matter,  in  a  sense,  when  he  de- 
fends himself  for  the  use  of  the  vernacular  for  so  sublime  a  subject  as 
his.  The  vernacular  speech,  he  says,  is  that  which  our  children  learn 
from  their  nurses  without  rule.  It  is  nobler  than  grammatical  speech 
because  it  was  first  employed  by  men,  and  is  used  by  all,  and  because 
it  is  natural,  whereas  the  other  is  artificial.  Not  peculiar  to  any  town, 
but  common  to  all,  it  is  the  generic  Italian,  "whose  fragrance  is  in 
every  town,  but  whose  lair  is  in  none."  Apply  this  statement  with  the 
necessary  changes  to  the  question  of  free  verse  as  opposed  to  conven- 
tional forms  and  it  will  be  surprisingly  apropos.  But  probably  that 
verse  whose  fragrance  is  in  all  forms,  but  whose  lair  is  in  none,  will 
prove  to  be  the  heritage  from  Whitman,  just  as  Dante's  speech  proved  to 
be  his  own  Tuscan.  There  are  some  critics  who,  if  they  would  be  re- 
luctant to  compare  him  with  Dante,  would  be  enthusiastic  to  apply  to 
his  verse  and  purpose  what  Dante  further  says  of  his  vernacular  in 
another  place.  "It  is  lax  and  humble,  for  it  is  the  vernacular  speech 
in  which  very  women  communicate."  They  could  scarcely  have  chosen 
words  more  adequate  for  their  opinion.  This  verse  is  so  lax  and  humble 
that  it  vulgarly  sprawls,  they  might  say ;  and  its  purpose  is  that  for  which 
very  women  sometimes  communicate.  And  some  might  even  hope  to 
heaven  that  this  sharp-tongued  woman  does  not  come  to  their  own 
home  towns.  But  the  nobility  of  the  simple  and  intimate  is  very  real 
to  both  moralists. 

He  who  read  the  Spoon  River  Anthology  when  it  first  appeared 
will  recall  that  the  reading  was  finished  with  difficulty  and  even  pain 
and  after  repeated  attempts.  It  reminded  him  of  Dante  in  the  dark 
wood,  where  it  was  so  hard  to  find  the  way  that  the  thought  of  it  made 
him  fear  anew — so  hard  that  death  itself  could  be  but  little  more  bitter. 
But  if  he  persisted,  the  delectable  mountains  came  into  view  and  hope 


120 


encouraged  him  to  struggle  onward  until  he  emerged  and  saw  the  stars. 
There  was  good  to  be  found  in  the  wild  and  rough  and  difficult  wood; 
but  there  was  need  to  know  of  the  other  things  to  be  found  there.  It 
was  the  process  of  learning  these  things  in  the  first  part  of  Masters' 
book  that  discouraged  many  in  the  first  trials,  since  they  had  no 
knowledge  of  the  good  that  was  eventually  to  be  found. 

The  path  to  the  knowledge  of  God  leads  through  sorrow  and  ad- 
versity, through  the  wild  and  rough  and  difficult  wood,  says  Dante. 
(The  sorrow  and  adversity  of  Mr.  Britling  led  Mr.  Wells  to  such  a  full 
knowledge  of  God  that  he  has  painted  a  full-length  portrait  of  the  In- 
visible King.)  Therefore  it  is  evident  that  this  great  poem  should  be 
called  a  comedy;  "for  with  respect  to  the  content  it  is  in  the  beginning 
horrible  and  fetid,  for  it  is  hell ;  and  in  the  end  it  is  prosperous,  de- 
sirable, atid  gracious,  for  it  is  paradise."  The  modern  poem  has  been 
called  a  comedy — a  human  comedy — after  Balzac,  the  design  in  the 
name  being  probably  the  same  as  Dante's,  but  representing  the  modern 
"stepping-down"  of  the  theological  to  the  sociological,  of  the  divine  to 
the  human.  According  to  Dante's  etymology  the  name  fits  the  modern 
song  as  well;  for  comedy  is  village  song,  rustic  song;  and  "so  comedy 
is  a  certain  kind  of  poetic  narration  differing  from  all  others."  Surely 
the  song  of  the  village  of  Spoon  River  is  a  song  differing  from  all 
others ! 

Since  the  first  part  of  the  Anthology  was  horrible  and  fetid,  readers 
found  it  so  disagreeable.  It  was  the  modern  counterpart  of  hell.  Since 
the  end  was  so  prosperous,  and  desirable,  and  gracious,  it  was  an  ample 
reward  for  the  pains  of  the  first  part.  It  was  the  modern  paradise. 
Thus  we  may  identify  hell  and  paradise  in  the  Anthology. 

But  is  there  a  purgatory  ?  The  attentive  reader  will  discover,  after 
he  has  sojourned  awhile  in  the  eternal  places  among  the  despairing  cries 
of  "the  ancient  spirits  woful,"  (among  whom  Virgil  warned  Dante  that 
it  was  necessary  to  pass)  that  the  spirits  have  become  comparatively 
contented  in  their  state.  Their  confessions  lack  the  customary  ironical 
sting.  They  entertain  the  passer-by  with  homilies  on  the  general 
meaning  of  life,  as  if  from  some  superior  point  of  vantage.  This  is 
purgatory,  the  home  of  those  "who  are  contented  in  the  fire,"  as  Dante 
says,  "because  they  hope  to  come,  whenever  it  may  be,  to  the  blessed 
folk."  Whether  for  the  same  reason  or  not,  these  are  at  all  events  con- 
tented folk,  otherwise  they  would  not  so  calmly  sermonize.  Thus  the 
simple  cemetery  in  its  effects,  that  is  spiritually,  resembles  the  Dantesque 
formal  threefold  division  into  hell,  purgatory,  and  paradise. 

Masters'  inferno  is  no  more  pleasant  a  place  than  Dante's.  And  it 
lacks  that  topographical  interest  which  sometimes  mitigates  the  accumu- 

121 


lated  horrors  of  Dante's  dark  world.  Dante's  sheer  descriptive  power, 
appHed  to  the  objectively  real  environment  as  well  as  to  the  fragments 
of  nature  from  the  world  above,  which  are  introduced  by  way  of  con- 
trast and  comparison,  arouses  an  esthetic  pleasure  that  tempers  fear 
and  pity.  Masters'  dark  world,  however,  is  one  of  pure  spirit,  re- 
lieved, to  be  sure,  by  some  wonderful  memories  of  nature,  like  Hare 
Drummer's  vivid  appreciation  of  the  walnut  tree, 

"Standing  leafless  against  a  flaming  west," 
the  smell  of  autumn  smoke,  the  dropping  acorns,  and  the  echoes  about 
the  vale. 

Amid  the  almost  universal  condemnation  of  the  ogre  "life"  by 
those  whom  he  has  maimed  and  bruised  and  broken,  there  appears  here 
and  there  a  relief,  as  in  Dante's  hell.  Old  Fiddler  Jones  has  lived  and 
fiddled  for  ninety  years ;  he  has  done  nothing  more,  but  he  has  no  re- 
grets. He  is  a  plebeian  exemplar  of  Dante's  Capaneus,  on  the  burning 
sands  under  the  raining  fire,  defiant  still  for  all  his  sufferings,  who,  in 
spite  of  his  creator's  intentions,  like  Milton's  Satan,  stirs  our  admira- 
tion. Old  Fiddler  Jones  defied  the  ogre  life,  even  sported  with  him  and 
after  a  full  experience  feels  no  regrets.  He  is  like  a  sunbeam  in  this 
"horrible  and  fetid  place." 

Paolo  and  Francesca  gleam  like  red  roses  through  the  murk  of 
Dante's  hell.  The  story  of  their  great  love,  which  unites  them  here  in 
death  as  it  united  them  there  in  life,  overcomes  Dante  with  grief,  so 
that  he  loses  consciousness.  So  William  and  Emily  touch  their  creator's 
heart  among  the  ironies  and  disillusionments  of  his  hell.  They  alone 
are  permitted  to  speak  their  story  together,  because  it  deals,  like  that 
of  Paolo  and  Francesca,  with  true  love.  In  the  one  case  vengeance 
unites  the  two  in  eternal  love;  in  the  other  death  fades  their  passion 
away  in  a  unison  like  love  itself.  Reuben  Pantier  and  Emily  Sparks, 
too,  gleam  brightly  amid  the  gloom  of  this  hell.  They  seize  and  hold 
the  attention  as  Dante's  was  held  by  those  two  who  went  together  so 
light  upon  the  wind.  The  firelike  quality  of  Reuben's  spirit  and  the 
flamelike  devotion  of  Emily  are  rare  in  this  eternal  place. 

Blind  Jack,  a  fiddler  like  Old  Jones,  performs  a  grateful  service 
when  he  gives  a  glimpse  of  old  Homer  singing  the  fall  of  Troy  to  the 
gathered  fiddlers,  "from  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  writers  of  music  and 
tellers  of  stories."  Masters  and  Dante  have  a  special  tenderness  for 
poets  and  artists,  but  the  modem  has  no  noble  castle  for  the  elect.  His 
Whitmanesque,  democratic  sympathy  includes  all,  from  Petit,  the  poet, 
counting  his  little  iambics  that  tick  like  seeds  in  a  dry  pod  and  Blind 
Jack,  fiddler  at  county  fairs,  to  Homer  and  Whitman,  "roaring  in  the 
pines,"  and  "the  mighty  shade  who  sings  of  one  named  Beatrice." 

122 


These  are  reliefs  in  the  Spoon  River  inferno,  which,  of  the  three 
realms  of  the  after  life,  seems  to  be  most  congenial  to  the  spirit  of  the 
modern  poet,  since  the  account  of  it  comprises  the  larger  half  of  his 
poem. 

Beginning  with  Edmund  Pollard  and  Thomas  Trevelyan  he  has 
apparently  decided  "to  sail  his  bark  over  better  waters,"  and  leave  be- 
hind "a  sea  so  cruel."  Now  the  orge  of  life  that  broke  and  crushed 
and  drove  to  despair  has  been  vanquished.  Evidently  a  new  perusal  of 
the  ancients  has  filled  the  poet  with  a  pagan  serenity,  and  he  acknowl- 
edges with  Thomas  Trevelyan  whence  the  new  joy  and  clearness  in  his 
soul  has  come. 

"O  livers  and  artists  of  Hell  as  centuries  gone, 
Sealing  in  little  thuribles  dreams  and  visions. 
Incense  beyond  all  price,  forever  fragrant, 
A  breath  whereof  makes  clear  the  eyes  of  the  soul; 
How  I  inhaled  its  sweetness  here  in  Spoon  River!" 

Spoon  River  has  indeed  profited  by  inhaling  its  sweetness.  The 
ogre  is  being  overcome;  it  is  found  good  to  warm  the  hand  at  the  fire 
of  life.  Henceforth  the  spirits  sweetly  ruminate  the  contents  of  their 
memories  and  discourse  in  a  mood  of  calm  reflection.  They  are  full 
of  mellow  advice,  "sealing  in  little  thuribles  dreams  and  wisdom."  They 
are  "contented  in  the  fire"  like  those  on  the  mount  of  purgatory,  who 
have  discovered  with  Calvin  Campbell  and  Lyman  King  that  Fate  is 
oneself  and  that  "man,  by  good  or  ill  deserts,  in  the  exercise  of  the 
freedom  of  his  choice,  becomes  liable  to  rewarding  or  punishing  justice." 
It  is  pleasant  to  be  among  them,  and  the  fears  that  beset  one  in  the  dark 
world  are  happily  far  behind.  Our  spirits  mount  the  cornices  of  this 
purgatory,  until  with  the  thought  of  Lincoln,  stirred  by  Anne  Rutledge, 
the  poet  soars  toward  his  paradise.  With  Herndon  we  see  Lincoln,  the 
Pioneer, 

"Arise  from  the  soil  like  a  fabled  giant 

And  throw  himself  over  a  deathless  destiny," 

and  yet  we  see  him  telling  stories  of  the  old  boarding  house  with  Han- 
nah Armstrong.  Lincoln  is  the  guide  who  conducts  the  poet  into  the 
abode  of  the  blest  spirits  and  the  Eternal  Presence.  The  pioneers,  typi- 
fied by  Lincoln,  are  the  angels  of  this  sphere.  They  have  learned  the 
great  mystery. 

"The  mystical  pathos  of  their  drooped  eyelids 

And  the  serene  sorrow  of  their  eyes" 
are    far   beyond   fathoming,    says   Rutherford    McDowell,    contrasting 
them  with  their  degenerate  offspring,  whose  fates  the  Spoon  River  hell 

123 


chronicles.  How  excellently  Lucinda  and  Davis  Matlock  announce  the 
old  gospel,  "it  takes  life  to  love  life,"  to  those  for  whom  it  was  too 
strong : 

"Well,  I  say  to  live  it  like  a  god 

Sure  of  immortal  life,  though  you  are  in  doubt, 

Is  the  way  to  live  it." 
These  spirits  are  joyous,  exultant;  they  have  won  their  inner  freedom, 
have  found  the  true  way,  and  are  in  glory.  It  is  not  by  abstinences  and 
prohibitions  that  they  climb  heavenward,  but  by  being  "glad  of  earth" 
and  "worshipping  her  in  wonder" ;  for  immortality  is  an  achievement 
to  be  possessed  after  mighty  striving  by  the  strong  of  soul,  not  a  thing 
to  be  chaffered  for.  Apocalyptic  visions  are  revealed  to  them  in  many 
degrees  of  splendor,  accordant  with  the  tradition  of  heaven.  Faith 
Matheny  interprets  the  sudden  flashes  in  her  soul.  Gustave  Richter's 
dream  presents  an  unbelievable  glory  of  light  immanent  with  the 
thought  of  a  Presence.  When  Dante  tried  to  remember  the  Supreme 
Vision,  so  much  mightier  was  it  than  his  speech  that,  like  one  who  saw 
in  a  dream,  when  the  dream  vanished,  only  the  stamp  of  the  passion 
remained,  and  nothing  else.  Arlo  Will  announces  that  the  strong  of 
soul  will  pass  through  many  splendours  here  and  "through  unnumbered 
heavens  to  the  final  flame."  Elijah  Browning  swiftly  reviews  life  from 
dancing  childhood  at  the  mountain's  base  upward  to  the  last  icy  pinnacle 
overhung  by  a  star.  He  climbs  the  pinnacle,  flings  away  his  staff, 
touches  the  star  and  vanishes ; 

"For  the  mountain  delivers  to  infinite  truth 

Whoever  touches  the  star." 
Dante  found  within  the  eternal  light  the  scattered  leaves  of  all  the 
universe  bound  up  by  love  in  one  volume,  but  power  failed  him  for 
the  high  fantasy  of  revealing  what  he  saw.  With  a  conclusion  similar 
but  in  a  spirit  quite  different,  Webster  Ford  apostrophizes  the  Delphic 
Apollo  and  exhorts  youth  to  fling  itself  into  the  fire  and  die  if  it  must 
be: 

"For  none  shall  look 

On  the  face  of  Apollo  and  live." 
Such  are  the  cherubim  and  seraphim  of  the  modern  paradise,  ex- 
ulting in  a  triumphant  affirmation  of  life.  It  is  the  old  pioneers,  of 
whom  Lincoln  is  the  eternal  archetype,  with  his  gentle  courage,  clear 
vision,  and  mystic  sadness,  who  teach  men  to  overcome  by  life  itself 
the  evils  of  living. 

So  though  Masters  may  have  gone  through  hell  and  climbed  pur- 
gatory with  Dante,  he  has  levelled  his  heaven  down  to  the  Olympus 
of  the  Greek  tragic  poets. 

124 


PELLE,  THE  CONQUEROR 
An  epic  of  labor. 


126 


PELLE,  THE  CONQUEROR 

An  epic  of  labor. 

Among  the  niany  literary  surprises  of  the  last  ten  years  is  the  re-ap- 
pearance and  unexpected  success  of  the  novel  in  three  volumes.  The 
trend  of  the  times  has  seemed  to  be  in  the  direction  of  economy  and 
compactness  in  literature,  rather  than  in  the  direction  of  expansion. 
And,  although  there  has  recently  been  a  rapid  production  of  the  shorter 
lyric  forms  in  verse,  the  broader  epic  has  not  become  popular  except 
in  such  abbreviated  and  modernized  versions  as  Masefield's  Daffodil 
Fields.  The  drama  has  been  much  sought  as  a  reading  form,  because 
of  its  lack  of  what  is  considered  the  non-essential  descriptive  matter. 
And  the  short  story  clings  to  popularity  as  persistently  as  ever.  KTany 
tendencies  indicate  the  literary  equivalent  of  the  demand  for  efficiency 
in  the  industrial  life. 

Parallel  with  this  undoubted  trend  in  literature  there  has  also 
existed  an  enthusiastic,  and  seemingly  inconsistent,  admiration  for  Rus- 
sian fiction,  a  literary  form  as  shapeless,  and  bulky,  and  incomprehen- 
sible as  the  land  from  which  it  springs  is  today.  It  may  be  that  this 
enthusiasm  for  Russian  fiction  has  influenced  our  novelists  to  experi- 
ment with  larger  forms  merely  under  the  impetus  of  desire  for  change. 
But  there  are  of  course  many  other  models  besides  in  their  respective 
literatures  from  that  past  time  when  men  were  assumed  to  have  more 
leisure  for  the  elaboration  of  their  artistic  designs.  Or  it  may  be  that 
these  novelists  are  groping  after  some  literary  form  to  present  the  im- 
mense magnitude  and  intricate  complexity  of  the  problems  of  modern 
life.  A  broadly  realistic  manner  will  require  a  work  of  much  larger 
scope  than  those  to  which  we  have  become  accustomed  by  the  effective 
demand  of  a  novelty-loving  public. 

Pelle,  The  Conqueror,  is  one  of  these  larger  works  of  the  epic 
kind  which  won  immediate  recognition.  Its  author,  Martin  Anderson 
Nexo,  was  probably  entirely  unknown  to  American  readers  until  the 
translation  of  his  four-volume  novel  was  completed.  It  is  said  he  was 
not  well  known  even  in  his  own  country  until  the  masterpiece  ap- 
proached completion.  A  work  which  has  been  greeted  as  a  great  liter- 
ary landmark  wherever  it  has  been  read,  and  which  has  consequently 
made  its  author  at  once  a  world  figure  in  literature,  deserves  more  at- 
tention than  it  has  hitherto  received  in  America.     And  the  more  so 


3  27 


since  it  deals  with  a  problem  in  organization  concerning  which  the 
world  today  has  great  need  to  know. 

The  four  volumes  of  the  novel  deal  with  four  phases  of  its  hero's 
development;  boyhood,  apprenticeship,  the  struggles  of  manhood,  and 
the  victory. 

The  first  volume  is  one  of  those  realistic  studies  of  boy  life  in  which 
modem  literature  abounds.  The  boy  Pelle  comes  from  Sweden  to  the 
island  of  Bornholm  in  the  Baltic,  a  Danish  possession,  with  his  aged 
father,  who  seeks  employment  for  them  there  in  the  land  of  promise 
as  farm-workers.  They  are  domiciled  on  Stone  Farm,  owned  by  the 
Koggstrups,  who  are  reputed  to  be  the  severest  taskmasters  in  the  island. 
They  are  paid  a  trifling  sum,  the  boy  being  too  young,  and  the  father 
too  old  for  full  wages.  The  unfolding  of  the  boy's  intelligence  in  the 
environment  of  the  farm  while  her3ing  cattle  in  the  meadow  in  sum- 
mer and  caring  for  them  in  winter,  while  trying  to  establish  himself 
among  his  playmates  on  the  farm  and  in  the  little  religious  school,  is  a 
vivid  record.  After  confirmation  at  fifteen  he  is  ready  to  shift  for  him- 
self and  goes  to  the  neighboring  seaport  town  where  he  is  apprenticed 
in  the  shoemaker's  trade. 

The  second  volume  continues  the  story  of  the  boy's  development 
in  the  hard  school  of  the  city.  The  curiosity  about  the  life  around  him 
which  characterized  his  farm  experiences  here  has  a  larger  field  for 
exploration,  and  there  is  little  about  the  town  and  its  inhabitants  that 
he  does  not  have  an  opportunity  to  learn  while  serving  his  apprentice- 
ship. The  difficulties  of  orientation  here  are  much  greater;  but  in  the 
attempt  to  find  himself  in  his  surroundings  his  character  gains  in 
strength  and  stability.  At  length  the  curiosity  to  learn  about  that  life 
beyond  the  narrow  city  horizon,  which  sends  strange  intimations  to 
him  from  time  to  time,  attracts  him  to  the  capital  before  his  apprentice- 
ship is  fully  served. 

The  third  volume.  The  Great  Struggle,  is  concerned  with  the  period 
of  young  manhood.  In  Copenhagen  he  finds  himself  at  the  very  heart 
of  a  problem  which  had  come  to  him  in  mysterious  hints  and  perplexing 
suggestions  on  the  farm  and  in  the  town.  He  sets  himself  to  solve  this 
in  the  same  way  in  which  he  had  learned  to  face  and  overcome  the 
smaller  problems  of  his  adjustment  to  his  simpler  youthful  environ- 
ment. His  method  is  to  throw  himself  with  great  energy  into  the  labor 
movement  of  which  he  became  in  time  the  leader.  It  is  not  to  be  un- 
derstood, however,  that  this  is  a  volume  on  labor  unionism.  It  is  still 
the  very  interesting  record  of  a  strong  and  magnetic  personality.  The 
bitter  conflicts  between  his  loyalty  to  a  cause  and  the  needs  of  his  own 
life,  his  loves,  wedded  life,  and  family  give  the  volume  an  intimately 


personal  impression.  At  the  height  of  his  success  as  a  labor  leader,  when 
he  has  just  won  a  great  general  strike,  he  is  sent  to  prison  on  a  false 
charge  of  forgery. 

The  last  volume  is  an  account  of  his  attempts,  after  his  release  from 
prison,  to  rehabilitate  himself  and  to  re-establish  his  family  life,  which 
had  been  broken  up  even  before  his  imprisonment  on  account  of  his 
devotion  to  the  labor  cause.  From  this  time  on  his  interest  in  the  labor 
problem  takes  the  form  of  attempting  to  establish  a  co-operative  shoe- 
making  industry  in  the  capital.  This  enterprise  involves  him  in  endless 
struggles  with  the  allied  competitive  manufacturers;  but  he  succeeds 
gradually  and  extends  the  co-operative  principle  into  other  activities. 
His  personal  fortunes  are  improved  and  his  family  happily  reunited 
and  established  on  a  country  estate  known  as  Daybreak  which  gives 
the  title  to  the  volume.  The  book  thus  ends  with  a  note  of  optimism 
quite  different  from  that  of  the  realistic  novels  of  the  day. 

Although  the  novel  is  primarily  the  record  of  Pelle's  personal  life, 
there  is  interwoven  more  or  less  deftly  with  this  an  account  of  condi- 
tions that  have  a  wide  economic  and  historical  significance.  Certain 
well-known  problems  are  here  shown  as  they  are  to  be  seen  from  the 
•  viewpoint  at  the  center  of  them.  Boyhood  thus  presents  the  centraliz- 
ing tendency  in  competitive  agriculture,  with  its  attendant  human  mal- 
adjustments. The  better  farms  of  the  island  are  gra'dually  being  ac- 
quired by  the  wealthy  farmer,  leaving  the  poor-farmers  to  till  the  bar- 
ren plots  and  to  eke  out  an  existence  by  occasional  labor  in  the  stone 
quarries.  The  independent  peasantry  is  being  transformed  into  a  pro- 
letariat of  unskilled  labor.  There  is  a  continual  streaming  of  young 
men  and  women  away  from  the  land  to  the  cities,  led  by  the  hope  of 
improving  outlook  for  the  future.  The  places  of  these  in  turn  are  filled 
by  the  incoming  stream  of  immigrant  labor.  Pelle  joins  the  outbound 
migration  to  the  town. 

The  town  presents  the  same  centralizing  tendency  in  the  trades, 
which  are  gradually  coming  under  the  control  of  the  masters,  who  suc- 
ceed by  exploiting  the  labor  of  their  apprentices.  The  masters  them- 
selves are  being  forced  to  the  wall  by  the  competition  of  machine-made 
goods  from  the  larger  industrial  centers.  The  apprentices,  when  their 
service  is  finished,  find  no  work  at  their  trades  and  drift  into  the  ranks 
of  unskilled  labor  like  the  peasants  in  the  country.  The  problem  of 
increasing  unemployment  and  acute  poverty  recurring  each  winter  begin 
to  attract  an  uneasy  curiosity.  The  prospects  for  the  future  in  a  trade 
are  no  better  than  they  were  on  the  land.  So  the  service  is  thrown 
over  and  Pelle  is  caught  up  in  the  endless  drift  towards  Copenhagen  to 
seek  there  the  promised  land. 
129  —5 


The  capital  is  the  center  toward  which  all  these  blind  forces  of 
life  converge.  Here  all  those  evils  that  revealed  themselves  in  town 
and  country  are  aggravated.  There  are  overcrowded  tenements,  hid- 
eous slums,  drunkenness,  disease,  desperate  poverty,  sweated  labor, 
monopolistic  industries,  usurers,  and  all  the  rest.  But  a  phenomenon 
new  to  Pelle  is  found  in  a  rebellious  labor  which  will  refuse  to  work 
when  conditions  become  intolerable.  Out  of  this  attitude  grows  union- 
ism, strikes,  lockouts,  parleyings  between  employers  and  employes,  pro- 
tocols, mediations,  and  general  suspicion  and  hostility.  Emigration 
from  Sweden  to  a  land  of  promise  (always  the  hope  of  the  emigrant) 
has  brought  Pelle  after  many  chances  to  this  end ;  the  only  escape  seems 
to  be  another  emigration  to  another  land  of  promise.  But  one  experi- 
ence of  this  cycle  seems  to  have  satisfied  Pelle.  He  joins  the  struggle 
for  change  and  becomes  a  leader  in  the  labor  movement  and  works 
with  such  energy  that  he  eventually  brings  his  cause  to  a  dramatic  tri- 
umph in  a  general  strike.  Thus  a  certain  respect  for  the  power  of  labor 
is  won  and  the  right  to  organize  is  conceded.  But  the  imprisonment 
of  Pelle  quickly  ends  his  triumph.  Up  to  this  point  the  background 
for  his  life  is  the  universal  experience  of  the  past  generation.  There  is 
very  little  real  difference  between  the  conditions  revealed  here  in  Den- 
mark and  those  in  any  other  industrial  country.  These  are  everywhere 
the  same.  All  the  phenomena  that  sociological  observation  has  dis- 
covered are  presented  as  the  incidental  accompaniments  to  the  life  of 
the  central  figure. 

The  fourth  problem  presents  a  phase  of  the  problem  that  is  rela- 
tively new  in  America.  It  suggests  that  unionism,  now  recognized  as 
respectable,  has  not  obtained  the  results  it  struggled  for.  There  is 
as  much  poverty  and  unemployment  as  before.  It  further  suggests  that 
the  new  phase  of  the  movement,  the  parliamentary  and  political,  will 
yield  no  more  acceptable  results.  Then  in  the  end  it  points  a  way  oi 
escape  from  the  situation  in  the  organization  of  co-operative  industries 
owned  by  the  laborers  themselves.  Pelle  leads  the  movement,  both 
by  the  object-lesson  of  his  own  co-operative  equal-sharing  shoe  factory, 
and  by  active  propaganda.  The  new  principle  is  shown  to  make  its  way 
against  all  the  embarrassments  that  competitive  industry  can  contrive 
to  throw  in  its  way,  until  in  the  end  the  principle  seems  to  control  many 
industries,  highly  organized  from  the  soil  to  the  consumer.  The  capital 
for  the  first  venture  comes  from  without  Pelle's  class,  an  expedient 
which  he  is  reluctant  to  accept.  But  he  becomes  reconciled  to  it  by  the 
reflection  that  the  new  order  which  labor  must  build  for  itself  must 
use  those  instrumentalities  which  the  two  orders,  capital  and  labor,  had 
hitherto  used  against  each  other. 

130 


In  this  review  it  is  seen  that  the  hero  of  the  novel,  the  completely 
individual  and  completely  realized  character,  at  the  same  time  reveals 
through  his  life  the  fortunes  of  the  laboring  class  (a  class,  by  the  wray, 
which  Disraeli  dignifies  by  the  name  of  a  nation  in  his  memorable 
phrase  concerning  England  "divided  into  two  nations";)  and  it  seems 
that  the  work  might  well  be  called  the  epic  of  labor,  not  necessarily  of 
Danish  labor  alone,  but  of  that  entire  western  world  where  the  same 
problems  await  solution.  Although  the  first  half  of  the  novel  is  some- 
what intimate  in  its  realism,  it  is  not  that  isolated  and  exceptional  ex- 
perience that  is  recorded  in  so  many  modern  investigations  into  the  in- 
dividual soul.  It  acquires  an  epic  sweep  and  significance  because  of 
the  universal  nature  of  this  one  individual ;  for  the  pattern  of  this  life 
is  traced  upon  a  background  made  completely  familiar  to  us  by  books 
and  periodicals  without  number  in  the  last  generation.  And  in  the  re- 
spect that  the  hero  rises  to  be  a  leader  in  the  most  significant  of  modern 
movements,  the  epic  quality  is  heightened  and  maintained.  In  these 
several  ways  the  book  is  similar  to  the  great  national  epics.  The  per- 
sonal fortunes  of  the  epic  heroes  are  indeed  the  primary  interest,  but 
these  acquire  a  greater  significance  by  being  connected  with  nafional 
fates.  Upon  the  adventures  of  Odysseus  depends  the  fate  of  Ithaca. 
Upon  Beowulf's  magnificent  combats  depends  the  welfare  of  a  people. 
The  Aeneid  is  scarcely  anything  else  than  the  high  destiny  of  imperial 
Rome.  But  this  epic  loses  its  power  to  attract  in  proportion  as  its  hero 
is  felt  to  be  merely  a  personification  of  Rome.  The  hero  who  is  a  sym- 
bol without  self-governing  personality  does  not  seem  to  satisfy  the  re- 
quirements of  an  epic.  He  must  be  individual  as  well  as  representative 
of  national  and  universal  destiny. 

Like  the  Aeneid  in  this  respect  are  those  works  in  which  the  hero 
serves  some  concept.  Those  two  interesting  works,  The  Adventures 
of  Gargantua  and  Pantagruel  and  Don  Quixote  are  not  properly 
epics  although  they  present  wide-sweeping  views  of  life.  They  are  the 
works  of  reflective  and  skeptical  men,  the  summaries  of  discredited 
cultures,  presented  in  a  burlesque  or  farcical  imitation  of  that  epic  man- 
ner which  would  have  been  appropriate  before  the  cultural  unity  of  the 
time  which  they  satirize  had  been  destroyed.  The  romances  of  roguery 
which  come  after  these  return  simply  to  the  realities  of  contemporary 
life  among  the  commons  with  however  light  a  purpose.  Upon  these  reali- 
ties more  seriously  considered  the  enduring  works  must  eventually  be 
built.  There  appears  in  time  such  a  "history"  as  that  of  Tom  Jones  in 
England.  In  this  there  are  realism,  unity,  and  characterization  seriously 
directed.  But  Tom  Jones  remains  only  an  interesting  type  of  a  kind  of 
Englishman ;  he  does  not  represent  the  fate  or  fortunes  of  England.    In 

t31 


such  a  work,  on  the  other  hand,  as  Hugo's  Les  Miserables,  there  is  found 
a  wider  significance  in  the  Hfe  of  the  hero,  which  does  not  necessarily  re- 
duce him  to  a  symbol.  But  Hugo's  characteristic  lyrical  gift  impairs  the 
epic  impression.  It  is  always  insistent  upon  the  larger  share  in  his  at- 
tempted realizations. 

To  come  quickly  to  the  present  (if  that  far-away  time  before  the 
war  can  be  called  the  present)  Jean-Christophe,  the  well-known  novel 
by  Rolland,  summarizes  the  civilization  of  Europe  just  turned  into  the 
new  century  as  it  is  reflected  in  the  life  experiences  of  a  master  musi- 
cian. It  is  not  a  national  novel ;  it  is  frankly  cosmopolitan.  But  cosmo- 
politanism as  a  reality  has  unfortunately  not  yet  arrived  in  the  world, 
although  Erasmus  could  avow  himself  a  cosmopolitan  with  some  show 
of  truth,  since  he  represented  a  universal  power  and  spoke  in  an  inter- 
national language.  Of  course  art  is  said  to  be  international,  to  be  limited 
by  no  national  barriers,  and  musicians  before  the  war  may  have  been 
the  only  true  internationals.  All  that  is  changed  now,  and  Jean-Chris- 
tophe represents  a  beautiful  dream  only.  At  all  events  it  is  difficult 
to  think  of  an  artist,  who  is  intent  upon  self-realization  in  pure  artistic 
expression,  as  representing  the  simple  realities  of  the  workaday  world. 
The  author  of  this  work  has  issued  from  Switzerland  a  pamphlet  called 
Above  the  Conflict.  This  attitude  of  Holland's  during  the  present 
crisis  explains  the  lack  of  living  consistency  between  the  life  of  Jean 
and  the  author's  interpolated  reflections  upon  European  civilization  as 
seen  from  a  high  intellectual  eminence.  The  novel  is  in  the  tradition  of 
Wilhelm  Meister,  whose  cosmopolitan  author  considered  the  cultured 
development  of  his  hero  with  Olympian  detachment  in  the  midst  of 
troublous  times. 

The  great  Danish  novel  may  be  truly  regarded  as  an  epic  of  labor, 
much  as  the  earlier  national  poems  are  called  epic.  This  statement  may 
well  be  criticized  on  the  ground  that  life  as  seen  from  the  viewpoint  of 
a  class  can  scarcely  be  called  epic.  It  is  unfortunately  true  that  a  divi- 
sion between  classes  exists  in  modern  times,  and  that  therefore  the  work 
which  is  broadly  realistic  must  present  the  view  of  the  one  or  the  other 
of  the  two  classes.  Until  this  division  is  eliminated  there  can  be  in  no 
work  that  impression  of  cultural  unity  which  pervades  the  work  of 
simpler  times.  Of  the  two  nations,  however,  as  Disraeli  called  them,  it  is 
very  likely  that  the  nation  of  labor  will  be  the  more  homogeneous,  and 
that  the  other  will  be  of  many  diverse  opinions.  The  very  fact  that  the 
one  group  is  spoken  of  as  "the  masses"  argues  for  its  homogeneity. 
Pelle,  The  Conqueror  does  present  that  unity  which  characterizes 
epics  because  in  this  work  life  is  seen  from  the  laborer's  center,  and 
interpreted  by  the  laborer's  philosophy.    It  gains  therefore  also  an  im- 

132 


pression  of  simplicity.     There  are  but  few  characters  from  the  upper 
classes.    Brun,  the  librarian,  is  one  sympathetically  drawn  exception. 

Pelle,  The  Conqueror  then  may  be  said  to  mark  the  clear  emerg- 
ence of  the  laborer  as  self-sufficient  hero,  and  the  realization  of  his  dig- 
nity in  articulate  literature.  There  have  been  many  side-references  to 
the  life  of  the  humble,  many  bird's-eye  views  of  it,  but  hitherto  prob- 
ably no  work  that  attempts  to  construct  the  world  from  that  point  of 
view. 


133 


CHILDHOOD  TRAGEDY 


iti 


CHILDHOOD  TRAGEDY 

Sharply  intagliated  upon  the  delicate  traceries  of  my  childhood  mem- 
ories stands  the  grim  vision  of  three  gaunt  wooden  structures,  white 
on  a  dark  blue  ground.  They  represent  what  in  my  childhood  were 
three  great  swings  set  on  a  plateau  just  at  the  outskirts  of  the  middle 
western  town  where  I  was  born.  Swings  as  such  are  so  much  like  the 
other  machinery  of  childhood's  joys  that  there  should  be  nothing  es- 
pecially noteworthy  about  them,  unless  perhaps  there  might  have  been 
associated  with  them  something  of  the  nature  of  the  pathetic,  or  pos- 
sibly, tragic.  But  these  I  remember  with  a  startling  vividness,  whenever 
my  thoughts  stray  backward,  as  they  often  do.  The  uprights  were 
made  of  peeled  poles  that  gleam  weirdly  against  a  darkling  sky,  almost 
like  slits  of  light  in  the  dark  velvet  canopy  of  the  spring  night — as  it 
seems  to  my  insistent  memory.  Whenever  I  become  conscious  of  this, 
critically  conscious,  that  is,  I  wonder  why  the  image  should  come  in 
this  gloomy  shape;  and  when  I  probe  into  the  memories  more  deeply, 
I  know  that  I  enjoyed  many  a  sunlit  day  of  untroubled  joyousness  in 
and  around  those  swings.  Then  the  great  structures  creak  and  groan 
a  troubled  groundbass  to  the  treble  of  childish  glee  as  they  labor  under 
the  urge  of  children  pumping  them  up  and  down ;  and  round  about,  the 
plateau  resounds  with  the  shouts  of  children  and  is  alive  with  flashes 
of  swift  color.  Why,  I  wonder,  when  this  secondary  is  so  much  more 
beautiful  and  satisfying,  should  it  not  in  time  take  the  place  of  prece- 
dence over  the  former  ?  It  is  often  said  that  memory  is  the  alembic  in 
which  all  the  ugliness,  and  pain,  and  weariness  of  life  are  refined  away, 
or,  if  of  higher  worth,  transmuted  into  the  gold  with  which  age  visions 
youth.  For  gold  one  must  have  somehow ;  and  if  it  is  not  to  be  had  in 
the  living,  then  it  may  be  had  in  the  remembering.  But  in  this  case 
of  mine  the  alchemic  process  has  failed — unless  gold  have  other  ap- 
pearances that  I  know  not  of. 

It  seems  that  the  function  of  dreams  is  to  satisfy  with  their  vani- 
ties the  hidden,  unrequited  desires  of  day;  and  perhaps  by  a  similar 
process  it  is  what  the  heart  has  once  passionately  desired  that  memory 
presents  to  it.  I  longed  with  a  fierce  intentness  for  the  pleasures  of 
those  swings  at  night,  but  then  I  could  not  enjoy  them.  Night  after 
night,  year  after  year,  (although  it  could  not  have  been  many  years)' 
I  longed  with  a  nameless  yearning  for  them — in  vain.  But  now  when- 
ever I  look  back  I  can  enjoy  them  at  night.    But  it  is  a  sad  enjoyment 

137 


that  my  memory  presents  me  with,  a  mockery.  I  have  them  indeed, 
all  to  myself,  no  sound  to  disturb,  no  light  to  merge  them  into  their 
setting,  stark,  forbidding,  awful.  They  have  become  the  very  emblem 
of  tragedy. 

Then  the  scene  shifts.  A  small  boy  sits  on  the  porch  in  the  brown 
twilight.  Before  him  is  a  pail  of  water.  Rebelliously  he  rolls  up  his 
trousers,  twitching  and  jerking  petulantly.  With  elbows  on  knees 
and  chin  in  hands  he  glowers  at  the  water  in  the  pail.  Suddenly  a 
medley  of  joyous  cries  rises  like  a  mellow  rocket  into  the  night.  He 
turns  his  head  to  listen  and  a  grimace  of  pain  twists  his  features.  He 
pictures  all  the  children  of  the  town  romping  madly  about  the  swings 
at  their  evening  play,  while  he — he  must  wash  his  feet.  He  spurns  the 
pail  so  that  the  water  splashes  high  around  him.  Life  is  but  a  tragedy, 
each  night  repeated.  What  malicious  ingenuity  could  have  invented  a 
more  bitter  punishment  than  this:  to  listen  to  the  poignantly  sweet 
sounds  of  distant  unshared  joy,  to  know  that  it  must  remain  unshared 
in  eternity,  and  as  if  that  were  not  enough,  to  have  to  wash  one's  feet 
the  while.  As  he  thinks  thus  the  longing  turns  to  fire  within  as  each 
warm  current  of  night  air  raises  the  confused  happy  murmur  to  a 
higher  pitch.  Could  any  reasonable  person  tell  him  why  it  was  neces- 
sary to  wash  one's  feet  in  spring?  Had  they  not  been  sprinkled  by 
gleaming  sprays  of  cool  dew  as  he  raced  through  the  meadows  that 
morning !  And  perfumed  with  flower  pollen  as  he  rolled  down  the  hill- 
sides in  the  morning  sun !  And  powdered  with  hot,  pungent  dust  as  he 
padded  along  the  country  roads  in  the  afternoon  heat !  And  rinsed  in 
the  warm  silver  shallows,  and  scoured  under  the  high  heaps  of  yellow 
sand  on  the  bars!  All  day  he  had  been  out  in  the  freshness  and  the 
wholesomeness  of  the  open,  yet  he  must  wash  his  feet.  This  is  the 
highly  praised  wisdom  of  our  parents — nothing  but  a  mean  caution 
about  bed  linen.  It  would  be  wiser  for  a  mother  to  love  her  son  more 
and  her  linen  less —  Another  rocket  of  cries  in  the  distance  draws  his 
mind  to  prick  out  the  shining  outlines  of  the  swings  as  with  a  spotlight. 
And  then  from  within  comes  the  impatient  warning  that  it  is  bedtime 
and  those  feet  must  be  washed  by  now.  So  it  has  to  be.  But  he  can 
pretend  great  concern  about  the  cleanliness  of  his  feet  so  as  to  prolong 
the  bitter-sweetness.  He  places  the  soles  of  his  feet  gently  upon  the 
surface  of  the  water,  sensing  the  smooth  coolness,  and,  as  he  lowers 
them  abstractedly,  feels  the  tickling  between  his  toes  and  the  unbroken 
surface  rolling  up  his  legs  until  his  feet  touch  the  bottom.  Then  begins 
the  foot-laving — no  sacrament  this,  performed  with  religious  unction. 
It  is  a  humiliation,  a  desecration.  Faintly  in  the  distance  sounds  the 
chorus,  a  malicious  accompaniment.     But  even   so,  the  task  is  pro- 


13S 


longed  until  the  imperative  note  in  the  warning  from  the  house  threatens 
direr  things.  It  is  finished ;  and  he  creeps  into  those  infinitely  precious 
sheets  of  his  mother's. 

When  he  closes  his  eyes  to  sleep,  he  sees  inside  their  lids  three 
gleaming  white  structures  upon  their  strangely  mottled  darkness.  Upon 
a  wave  of  dull  resentment  he  drifts  into  sleep. 

When  he  has  fallen  asleep,  he  finds  himself  peering  out  from  white- 
washed prison  bars,  just  six  of  them,  into  a  bright  world  of  happiness. 

A  few  years  ago  I  visited  the  great  gallery  at  Dresden.  I  had 
just  been  paying  my  respects  before  the  Sistine  Madonna  in  her  special 
cabinet  and  was  proceeding  through  the  smaller  cabinets  where  the 
masters  of  Dutch  and  early  German  painting  were  displayed.  As  I 
strolled  into  one  of  these  I  saw  upon  the  opposite  wall  and  somewhat 
in  the  corner  what  might  have  been  a  rectangular  hole  cut  in  the  wall. 
And  through  this  my  astonished  vision  travelled  back,  far  back,  to  a 
midwestern  village,  and  to  a  plateau  beyond,  where  three  livid  struc- 
tures shone  against  a  gloomy  sky.  I  stood  lost  in  reverie  a  moment 
Then  I  crossed  the  floor  and  read  the  legend  beneath  the  frame,  "The 
Crucifixion,  by  Albrecht  Durer." 


139 


ABSOLUTE  ABLATIVES 


141 


ABSOLUTE  ABLATIVES* 

By  Philologus 

An  alumnus  of  the  University  of  Washington,  a  business 
man  with  literary  proclivities,  expresses  his  appreciation  of 
the  practical  value  of  his  training  in  foreign  languages. 
Having  the  business  man's  fear  of  being  caught  in  pursuit 
of  the  classics  in  literature,  he  desires  to  preserve  his 
incognito. — Editor  The  Washington  Alumnus. 

As  I  sit  in  my  study,  idly  musing,  my  gaze  chancing  to  fall  upon 
tny  library,  I  am  agreeably  impressed  by  the  splendid  array  there  of 
books  in  foreign  languages — Greek,  Latin,  French  and  German.  The 
atmosphere  they  give  to  my  room  is  distinctly  academic  and  I  am  much 
pleased  thereat.  Certainly  I  deserve  to  be  surrounded  by  an  atmos- 
phere of  learning  for  I  have  vi^orked  through  every  one  of  those  books 
of  mine  in  high  school  and  college.  My  pleasure,  I  believe,  is  duly 
modest.  As  a  student  in  Liberal  Arts  with  a  fondness  for  literature, 
what  was  more  natural  than  that  languages  should  have  formed  a  large 
part  of  my  curriculum  ? 

Alumni,  in  their  leisure  moments,  are  apt  to  look  back  over  their 
college  years  and  wonder  just  what  elements  of  good  practical  value 
they  have  obtained  from  their  college  courses,  as  tested  by  the  experi- 
ence of  life.  And  so  I  look  back  over  my  college  work  and  especially 
over  my  language  work  to  try  to  estimate  what  benefit  I  have  derived 
from  the  years  I  have  devoted  to  it. 

If  I  understand  aright  the  purposes  of  language  instruction,  as  it 
is  given,  then  the  results  of  my  attempt  at  estimation  are  satisfiactory 
and  I  have  profited  by  work  in  language. 

In  what  manner  will  be  seen.  To  begin  with  Latin,  to  which  I  de- 
voted the  larger  part  of  my  time,  I  shall  enumerate  what  are  the  pleas- 
ures and  profits  I  now  obtain  from  my  knowledge  of  Latin.  I  am  ex- 
ceedingly proud  of  my  Latin  books  and  am  very  pleased  to  be  able  to 
discuss  with  any  lover  of  literature  those  things  which  I  have  learned 
to  consider  of  first  importance  in  each  author.  I  should  say,  for  in- 
stance, of  Caesar's  Commentaries  on  the  Gallic  War,  that  it  might  more 
appropriately  have  been  called  Commentaries  on  the  Oratio  Obliqua. 
Vividly  I  remember  what  beautiful  illustrations  of  the  Accusative  with 

*Beprlnted  from  The  Washington  Alumnus,  October,  1908. 
143 


Infinitive  construction  would  follow  whenever  "Ariovistus  dixit"  any- 
thing in  Indirect  Discourse. 

And  sometimes,  but  very  rarely,  some  man  would  be  quoted,  so 
that  an  idea  might  be  obtained  as  to  how  men  talked  in  Direct  Discourse. 
Again,  I  wonder  if  any  man  that  has  studied  Caesar  could  ever  forget 
his  bridge — the  bridge  that  Caesar  built!  What  an  array  of  strange 
and  unusual  words  he  used  in  that  bridge !  What  complex  grammati- 
cal constructions  and,  all  in  all,  what  a  marvel  of  philological  engineer- 
ing that  bridge  was !  It  must  have  been  a  wonderful  structure !  In  all 
the  Civil  War  of  Caesar  there  was  no  such  bridge ! 

Virgil's  Aeneid  recalls  to  mind  "Arms  and  the  man" :  Aeneas,  who 
was  tossed  about  so  much  on  land  and  sea  until  he  finally  landed  on  the 
Lavinian  shore.  Virgil  "sang,"  as  he  says,  and  his  singing  was  in  Ab- 
latives Absolute  of  manner,  means,  cause,  accompaniment,  etc.,  ad  li- 
bitum, horrible  dictu !  As  I  remember  the  poem,  these  things  were  the 
burden  of  his  song,  so  to  speak.  Whether  it  was  a  dirge  or  a  paean  of 
praise  is  not  yet  clear,  but  its  exemplifications  of  complex  grammatical 
construction  were  excellent. 

Horace  in  his  Odes,  Epodes,  Satires  and  Epistles  had  a  variety  of 
clever  exemplifications,  too.  And  likewise  the  other  writers,  poets,  his- 
torians, essayists,  orators,  with  whose  works  I  became  familiar  in  the 
same  manner  such  as  Ovid,  Cicero,  Pliny,  Livy,  Tacitus,  Suetonius,  etc. 

All  the  authors  I  studied  served  as  a  means  to  one  end — a  thorough 
knowledge  of  Harkness'  Grammar.  It  was  a  long  way  about,  but  it 
was  by  this  longest  way  around  that  I  am  now  at  last  safely  at  home  in 
Harkness'  Grammar.  Poets  and  philosophers  and  public  men  all  helped 
me  along  each  with  his  grammatical  mite. 

Now,  in  Greek,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  Goodwin's  Grammar  I 
learned,  through  Homer  and  Xenophon  chiefly.  I  hadn't  time  to  study 
very  many  Greek  writers.  Consequently  I  am  not  very  familiar  with 
Greek  grammar.  I  regret  this  very  much  for  Greek  has  interesting  and 
intricate  inflections  well  worth  years  of  reading  to  acquire  a  knowledge 
of  for  future  reference. 

To  come  down  to  the  modern  languages,  I  spent  some  two  years 
or  more  in  each  of  French  and  German.  It  has  always  been  a  pleasant 
pastime  to  put  into  play  the  conversational  knowledge  of  those  lan- 
guages that  I  acquired  in  class  exercises  and  in  conversation,  provided 
the  subjects  discussed  did  not  stray  far  from  the  weather  and  the  time 
of  day.    One  cannot  be  expected  to  learn  to  talk  about  anything. 

As  in  the  ancient  languages,  so  in  the  modern,  classics  were  read 
in  order  to  ground  one  in  inflection,  grammar  and  word-order.  With 
an  exact  knowledge  of  these  things  and  a  dictionary  it  is  possible  to 

144 


compose  classical  French  arid  German.  It  was  none  other  than  the  best 
masters  in  either  language  that  taught  me  my  fundamentals — Goethe, 
Schiller,  Lessing,  Corneille,  Racine,  Moliere. 

From  this  hasty  review  it  may  at  once  be  seen  that  my  liking  for 
literature  brought  me  directly  in  contact  with  the  greatest  masters  in 
four  languages,  many  of  whom  are  masters  of  literature  in  all  lan- 
guages. I  have  become  familiar  with  their  vocabularies,  knowing  fairly 
accurately  the  inflectional  forms  of  the  larger  number  of  their  words 
and  the  grammatical  relations  of  these  words  to  each  other  in  the  var- 
ious styles  of  composition  in  which  they  were  encountered.  I  was 
always  taught  to  rivet  my  attention  upon  the  word  and  not  to  permit 
it  to  stray  into  a  contemplation  of  the  thought  words  carried,  nor  of  the 
esthetic  qualities  of  poetic  forms  or  ideas.  We  were  concerned  with 
the  tangible,  the  practical,  the  word,  not  with  indefinite  esthetic  things 
which  lie  in  forbidden  paths.  The  logical  conclusion  of  such  studies  is 
eventual  possession  of  a  doctor's  degree  and  the  publication  of  a  thesis 
on  the  Uses  of  the  Subjunctive  in  some  author  or  other  in  some  lan- 
guage or  other.  In  that  way  I  shall  never  be  able  to  utilize  my  training, 
for  that  same  fondness  for  literature  that  led  me  to  the  study  of  lan- 
guages has  now  interposed  to  prevent  the  logical  conclusion  of  my 
studies.  Of  later  years  in  my  browsings  about  I  have  come  to  know 
much,  by  second  hand,  about  the  conciseness  of  Caesar's  style,  the  pur- 
ity of  the  Ciceronian;  about  the  naivete  of  Homer,  the  simplicity  of 
Virgil  and  the  elegance  of  Horace;  about  the  position  occupied  by  the 
French  dramatists  and  Lessing  in  the  general  drama;  and  about  the 
philosophies  of  Schiller  and  Goethe  and  so  forth.  When  I  consider  my 
training  it  would  seem  heresy  to  read  the  original  works  again  for  these 
things,  if  indeed  it  would  be  possible  to  read  them.  I  should  no  doubt 
become  involved  in  a  struggle  with  some  construction  on  the  first  page 
of  my  work  or  become  lost  in  meditation  on  some  point  of  etymology, 
a  subject  which  interests  me  very  much.  For  instance,  should  I  come 
across  the  verb  "e-duco"  in  Latin,  the  English  work  "education"  would 
come  into  mind  at  once  and  how  our  word  has  changed  in  meaning  from 
that  of  its  root.    It  would  be  very  difficult  to  get  away  from  words. 

My  attention  has  recently  been  directed  to  the  attempt  on  the  part 
of  some  Eastern  colleges,  notably  Princeton,  to  depart  from  the  ortho- 
dox method  of  language  study  and  to  substitute  for  it  what  they  choose 
to  call  the  cultural  method,  in  which  emphasis  is  placed  upon  the  liter- 
ary, esthetic,  historical,  philosophical,  etc.,  elements  of  that  which  they 
study.  Something  after  the  old  Humanist  methods.  Surely  in  this 
age  of  enlightened  education  a  retrogression  toward  the  methods  in 
vogue  in  the  Middle  Ages  should  not  be  tolerated.    They  would  by  their 

145 


method  advance  to  a  reading  knowledge  of  a  language  by  the  simplest, 
easiest  and  most  direct  route.  Whereas  the  present  academic  ideal 
supposes,  rationally,  that  a  thorough  reading  knowledge  must  be 
based  upon  a  thorough  and  exact  knowledge  of  the  word  in  all  its  gram- 
matical relations  and  forms,  and  that  since  this  requires  years  of 
patient  and  careful  study,  reading  knowledge  is  not  to  be  attained  until 
post-graduate  years.  He  who  sacrifices  that  special  mental  training 
that  grammar  can  give,  merely  to  read  and  enjoy  a  foreign  work  is  like 
the  boy  who  eagerly  hastens  through  his  first  novel.  He  enjoys  for- 
bidden fruit ;  his  enjoyment  rests  upon  blissful  ignorance.  Were  you  to 
ask  either  the  definition  of  a  word  at  random,  or  the  simplest  question 
in  grammar  he  would  betray  a  profound  ignorance  of  these  essentials. 

I  must  admit,  however,  that  in  spite  of  my  thorough  training,  my 
own  reading  methods  in  my  mother  tongue  are  somewhat  lax.  Al- 
though I  have  an  English  dictionary  and  a  grammar  convenieritly  placed 
I  have  become  so  careless  or  lazy  that  I  usually  neglect  to  ascertain  the 
exact  definitions  of  unusual  words  or  to  explain  the  exact  grammatical 
relations  of  one  word  to  another  when  this  is  not  absolutely  certain. 
But  with  my  foreign  languages  I  can  conscientiously  say  that  my 
knowledge  of  such  things  is  much  more  exact  since  my  attention  is  not 
distracted  by  the  sense  of  what  is  being  said. 

From  these  reflections  I  think  it  will  be  granted  that  my  pride  as  I 
look  at  my  volumes  is  justifiable.  Feeling  a  desire  tonight  to  follow 
Ulysses  again  in  his  world-famed  wonderings  I  shall  resist  the  tempta- 
tions to  parallel  my  Greek  text  with  Butcher  and  Lang's  translation, 
but  shall  remain  true  to  my  academic  traditions  and  get  aid  and  inspira- 
tion from  Goodwin's  Greek  Grammar  through  "a  hundred  lines"  of 
the  journey. 


146 


POEMS 


147 


PICTURES 

A  Canoe 

Like  the  course  of  silent  thought 

A  canoe  glides  straight  across  the  bay; 

With  dim  whisperings 

As  swinging  paddles  fling  their  tiny  spray. 

Holiness 

The  moon  swings  high 

Like  a  swaying  silver  censer, 

And  spills  its  sacred  fire, 

Pure  and  colorless  as  a  nun's  prayer, 

In  a  thin  ghostly  sheen 

Over  the  low  grey  shoreline. 

And  in  gently  undulating  gleams  of  light 

Across  the  musing  waters. 

Passion,  strife,  and  color  are  purged  away, 

And  all  is  spiritual  loveliness. 

Gulls 

In  the  northward  gloom 

Dun  grey  shapes 

Float  among  the  ripples 

Or  wheel  and  poise  and  swoop 

With  flashes  of  underwing  in  the  moonlight. 

A  sound  of  plaintive  murmuring 

And  sudden  strident  cries 

Break  the  solemn  quietude. 

The  Path 

Clear  pools  of  light  in  the  open. 

Sifted  moonlight  under  the  alders. 

Deep  pools  of  darkness  under  the  maples; 

Clear  forms  float  along. 

Mottled  under  the  alders. 

And  vanish  silently. 

149 


APRIL  DAY 

Foam  cloud,  keen-edged,  gleaming;    sun-drenched  skies; 
Glistening- jewelled  grass  blades ;  warm  earth  scents ; 
Vivid  green  buds,  trembling;    birthtime  sighs; 
Crystalline  air,  rain-cleansed ;  sky  blue  intense. 

Gusts  of  sudden  wind,  swift-scudding  cloud; 
Fir  trees,  lofty,  swaying,  darkling  air ; 
Bickering  branches,  leaves  complaining  loud ; 
Wind-lashed  rain — a  Maenad's  streaming  hair. 

Holy  calms  and  Bacchic  revelries ; 
Sunbursts,  glooms,  and  swirling  flower-spray; 
Fleeting  shadow,  wind-sped  develries: — 
Passion,  smiles,  and  tears — an  April  day. 


KINGSTON 

Sharply  etched  upon  the  Western  sky 
The  massive  purple  portals  stand,  deep-scarred. 
Against  the  welling  dusky  flood  on  guard. 
While  the  sun's  last  faintly  golden  colors  die. 
There  lies  the  pond,  cold  like  polished  steel. 
Amidst  the  solemn  trees,  see,  far  away, 
The  leaden  dull-green  stretches  of  the  bay ! 
And  all  so  still — I  doubt  if  it  be  real. 
Thus  vanishes  the  day  in  history: 
The  smiling  clarity  and  fair  light  fades. 
Beneath  the  Western  rim  lurk  dusky  shades 
And  pensive  twilight  broods  on  mystery. 

Behold  the  twilight  mystery  that  lies 
Beneath  the  smiling  daylight  of  your  eyes. 


150 


HERALDINGS  OF  DAY 

Wash  and  sweep — wash  and  sweep — 
O'er  the  sands  a  sacred  rite; 
Surge — recede — surge,  recede — 
Dimly,  faintly,  through  the  night ; 
Ebb  and  flow — ebb  and  flow — 
Tell  the  coming  of  the  light. 

Earth  waits  silent,  swathed  in  grey ; 
Dark  tremors  fret  the  gleaming  ocean 
And  flit  and  weave  in  ghostly  motion 
And  whisper  heraldings  of  day. 


THERE  ARE  NO  CLOCKS  IN  THE  FOREST 

A  faint  far  breeze  is  moving  on  the  sea — 
The  maples  shudder  in  the  cold  grey  light — 
A  stream  of  gold  flows  down  the  eastern  height; 
And  fills  the  waiting  world  with  ecstacy, 
With  merry  songs  and  cries  and  shouts  of  glee. 
To  quiet  evening  winds  the  day's  slow  flight; 
And  shadows  creep ;  and  merge ;  and  blend  in  night. 
A  lone  star  trails  its  silver  mesh  to  me. 

Thus  comes  the  day — and  goes — in  endless  time. 
What  clock  can  tick  the  measure  of  a  day  ? 
What  numbered  days  the  fulness  of  a  life? 


151 


CONSOLATION 

Blue  days,  when  the  long  lashes  wet  with  tears, 

Cling  to  the  tired  cheeks  and  the  melancholy  mind  turns  through  the 

years 
Of  buried  happiness  and  hopes  that  rose  and  fell — 
Days  of  the  sad  heart,  when  the  bitter  load  bears  hard 
And  life  runs  low  to  ebb,  and  the  sweetest  thoughts  are  scarred 
By  sadness  since,  and  whispers  rise  from  Hell — 
Days,  when  the  great  gray  mists  fall  low  and  cling, 
And  smear  with  their  clammy  touch,  and  everything 
Is  warped  and  changed,  and  raindrops  slowly  creep — 
These  are  the  days  when  one  must  think  of  those 
Whose  happiest  moment  scarcely  ever  knows 
The  pleasure  of  the  tears  of  those  who  weep. 


QUERY 

Urged  by  the  peacocks  of  our  vanity 
Up  the  frail  tree  of  Life  we  climb  and  grope; 
About  our  heads  the  tragic  branches  slope, 
Heavy  with  Time  and  Xanthis  mystery. 
Beyond,  the  brooding  bird  of  Fate  we  see 
Viewing  the  world  with  eyes  forever  ope'. 
And  lured  by  all  the  phantom  fruits  of  Hope, 
We  cling  in  anguish  to  this  fragile  tree. 

O  louring  skies !    O  clouds,  that  point  in  scorn 
With  the  lean  fingers  of  a  wrinkled  wrath! 
O  dedal  moon,  that  rears  its  ghostly  horn! 
O  secret  stars  athwart  the  cosmic  path! 
Shall  we  attain  the  glory  of  the  Mom — 
Or  sink  in  some  abysmal  aftermath? 


152 


To  R.  D.  C. 

Dear  Friend,  when  1  look  forward  in  the  years 

To  come,  full-laden  with  their  promised  store 

Of  deeds  for  your  assay,  unstayed  by  fears 

That  shackled  weaker  men  who  tried  before; 

When  I  darkly  peer  behind  the  obscure  veil 

With  eager  eyes  for  your  high  destiny, 

I  sometimes  faintly  seek  to  trace  a  tale 

Of  lowlier  though  kindred  lot  for  me. 

But  if  of  me  tTiere  be  no  tale  to  tell 

Of  noble  deeds,  and  fame  of  such  high  kind, 

I  hope  that  these  poor  lines  may  serve  as  well 

To  guard  the  ties  that  you  and  me  now  bind ; 

For  men  forget  in  haughty  triumph's  days 

The  friends  that  walked  with  them  on  earlier  ways. 


THE  POOR  SCHOLAR  OF  WASHINGTON 

A  gay  scoler  was  ther  at  Washingtoun 

Was  never  wight  of  half  so  greet  renoun. 

Of  his  stature  he  was  of  evene  length 

And  wonderly  delivere,  but  lyte  of  strength. 

Of  twenty  yeer  of  age  he  was,  I  trow. 

Col-blak  was  his  heer  as  any  crow, 

Streight-up  y-kempt  ful  smothe  and  fetisly. 

Alwey  his  eyen  twinkled  jolily 

Out  of  his  face,  as  reed  and  fresh  as  May. 

A  fewe  fraknes  in  his  face  y-spreynd, 

Betwixen  yelow  and  somdel  blak  y-meynd. 

Upon  his  heed  he  hadde  a  cappe  of  grey, 

Ther-to  he  wore  a  cote  al  pomely-gris 

Noon  other  man  so  gay  y-clad,  I  wis; 

His  hosen  were  wyde  about  his  hippes 

Brown  were  his  shoon,  broune,  street  y-teyd  and  fetis 

With  pers  and  sangwyn  shoon  his  nekke-clooth 

Of  brighte  colours  him  were  nothing  looth. 

Of  gold  y-wrought  a  curious  pin  hadde  he 

Of  a  solempne  and  greet  fraternitee. 

Al  be  he  was  a  verray  fetis  male 

Of  his  array  tell  I  no  longer  tale. 


153 


To  Ipgic  hadde  this  scolar  long  y-go, 

Somtyme  to  rhetoric  and  physice  also ; 

Of  aristotle  and  his  philosophye 

It  roghte  him  nat  a  bene,  sin  he  was  free ; 

Thrugh  al  his  lessouns  on  a  hors  he  rood ; 

What  should  he  studie,  and  make  himselven  wood 

Upon  a  book  in  College  alwey  to  poure 

Or  swinken  with  his  minde,  and  laboure  ? 

He  yaf  nat  of  that  text  a  pulled  hen 

The  wisdom  of  an  heap  of  learned  men. 

For  him  was  lever  have  at  his  beddes  heed 

Twenty  portreitures  in  blak  or  reed 

Of  meydes  faire,  and  eek  a  gay  sautrye, 

Than  bokes  of  lerning  and  philosophye. 

But  al  be  that  he  was  not  philosophre 

Yet  hadde  he  but  litel  gold  in  cofre 

But  al  that  he  might  of  his  f  reendes  hente 

On  maydes  and  delyes  he  it  spente. 

Ful  wel  biloved  and  famulier  was  he, 

With  damoiselles  over-al  in  his  contree; 

On  al  the  campus  wyde,  is  noon  that  can 

So  much  of  daliaunce  and  fair  langage; 

Of  janglerye  of  love  he  knew  perchaunce; 

For  he  coude  of  that  art  the  olde  daunce. 

Ful  swetely  herde  he  confessiouns 

And  pleasaunt  was  his  consolaciouns. 

There  was  noon  other  man  of  better  chere ; 

He  was  verray  parfit  lovyere. 

Souning  his  own  vertu  was  his  speeche 

And  gladly  wolde  he  telle,  and  gladly  teche 

To  al  his  felawes  by  the  chimenee 

Of  good  aventures  in  love,  pardee. 

Dauncen  he  coude,  a  twenty  devil  way. 

Singing  he  was,  or  whistlynge,  al  the  day; 

Of  studie  took  he  no  cure  and  lyte  hede, 

Noght  o  worde  redde  he  more  than  was  nede. 

Now  is  nat  that  of  God  a  ful  fair  grace 

That  swich  a  sleye  mannes  wit  shal  pace 

The  wisdom  of  a  lerned  facultee? 

Ther  is  namo,  out  of  al  charitee. 


154 


SPRING 
(A  Monologue) 

Scene — A  small  plot  of  brilliantly  green  grass  by  the  side  of  a  large 
ugly  stump,  in  an  open  space  among  tall  firs,  wide- spreading  maples, 
and  other  growth.    A  cloudy  day. 
Time — Early  spring. 

(A  daisy  is  discovered  among  the  grass  blades,  nodding,  slowly  opening 
its  eye.     Mumbling.) 

Dear  me,  that  was  an  awfully  heavy  sleep;  I  could  hardly  get  my  eye 
open.  Wonder  what  woke  me  up.  I  was  having  such  a  lovely  dream. 
Let  me  see,  what  was  it  about  ?  O  yes,  about  that  rascal  Pan — and  then 
I  seemed  to  feel  a  warm  breath  (petulantly)  just  in  time  to  spoil  it  all. 
(Stares  about  in  wide-eyed  surprise)  Well,  well,  what  sort  of  festivity 
is  on  here,  I  wonder.  Seems  to  be  a  lot  of  joy  loose  about  something 
or  other — a  pageant,  I  guess.  Look  at  the  way  the  trees  are  all  lit  up ; 
there's  a  million  nice  little  green  flames  on  each  one.  I  dreamt  about 
something  like  that  once,  only  the  flames  were  different,  and  the  ground 
was  covered  by  a  fluflfy  white  blanket.  This  is  something  moi-e  to  my 
taste.  Isn't  that  a  lovely  blue  canopy  they  have  stretched  up  above, 
with  bunches  of  cotton  stuck  on  it,  I  like  that;  sort  of  careless-like. 
(Turns  her  head  aslant  to  value  it.) 

Seems  to  me  I  have  smelt  that  strange  odor  somewhere,  too.  There's 
a  little  current  of  musk  in  it.  And  then  there  are  whiffs  of  something 
else.  Must  be  smoke  from  those  green  flames.  I  do  love  odors  that 
don't  scream.  (Shivers  a  little)  It  is  chilly,  isn't  it ?  I  must  get  down 
among  the  grassblades. 

(The  sun  emerges  from  behind  a  cloud  and  floods  the  earth  with 
warmth.    The  daisy  cranes  her  head  out  to  see.) 

Oh! What  a  gorgeous  sight!  (Entranced.) 

No  wonder  things  are  decked  out.  That  must  be  the  King. 
Well,  he  ought  to  be  king  the  way  he  showers  gold  around. 
I  have  heard  about  him  somewhere  before,  too.  O,  I  suppose  I  dreamed 
about  him.  Funny  how  I  have  dreamed  so  many  things  that  are  com- 
ing true.  That's  a  real  king,  all  right.  Makes  me  glow  to  look  at  him. 
(Warm  zephyrs  lazily  moving.)  Hello,  What's  this?  I  feel  so  strange. 
What  a  painfully  sweet  melody!  It  thrills  me  to  the  very  marrow. 
Everything  feels  the  urge ;  the  grass-blades  nod  gravely,  the  green  flames 

186 


sway.     It  must  be  a  welcoming  minuet  for  the  King.     O,  I'd  like — 

I'd  like  to  give  myself  to  the  ecstacy  of  it.    I— 

(The  daisy  reluctantly  begins  to  swing,  and  gradually  gives  herself  to 

the  universal  rhythm.) 

(A  girl  comes  by  and  picks  up  the  daisy  for  a  wreath ;  for  she  too  must 

deck  herself  for  the  King.) 

Poor  Daisy? 
Glad  girl? 
Both  are  daisies  after  all. 


15S 


LETTERS 


157 


SEATTLE,  August  16, 1912. 
Dear  R : 


Well,  I'm  back  from  a  160  mile  hike  in  the  woods  from  Ta- 
coma,  the  greater  part  of  the  distance  to  Mt.  Adams,  in  addition  to  scal- 
ing the  mount.  We  accomplished  the  feat,  carrying  all  our  provisions, 
clothing  and  bedding  on  our  backs  in  a  week's  trip,  which  we  consider 
a  very  creditable  feat.  Our  packs  averaged  at  the  beginning  well  over 
40  pounds  to  the  man,  and  for  the  greater  part  of  the  trip  well  over 
35,  I  should  say.  That,  I  believe  you  will  grant,  was  not  so  howling 
bad  for  a  lot  of  tenderfeet  pedagogs,  especially  when  you  include  in  the 
consideration  the  fact  that  we  carried  our  loads  over  8,000  feet  up  the 
mountains  before  we  cached  them  for  the  final  dash  for  the  summit.  And 
we  made  the  ascent  by  a  route  which  had  not  before  been  tried,  accord- 
ing to  the  information  we  coufd  gather  as  we  approached  the  mountain. 
The  trip  was  begun  in  very  auspicious  weather,  a  little  hot,  if  any- 
\hing — 94  degrees  in  the  shade  in  fact.  Then  it  changed  to  the  moistest 
weather  it  has  ever  been  my  good,  or  ill,  fortune  to  be  caught  out  in. 
Struggling  along  under  a  heavy  pack,  with  the  water  streaming  in  sheets 
from  the  sky,  up  hill  and  down  dale ;  your  clothing  hanging  to  you  with 
a  cold  but  clinging  embrace  and  becoming  momentarily  heavier — this  is 
an  experience  worth  living  through  once,  at  least.  Then,  by  way  of  giv- 
ing the  spice  of  variety  to  life,  it  was  refreshing  to  have  it  drizzle  all 
night  upon  our  beds  out  in  the  open.  There  is  a  caressing  touch  to 
rain  upon  your  face  in  the  night,  and  an  insinuating  coolness  in  a  stream 
trickling  from  the  poncho  down  your  neck.  And  once  in  a  while  when 
you  turn  over  there  is  a  slushy  warmth  in  the  pools  you  find  in  unexpect- 
ed places  on  your  blankets.  That  particular  night  I  was  tenderly  nurs- 
ing a  game  knee  which  promised  to  give  me  some  trouble  in  the  morn- 
ing if  I  did  not  care  for  it  well  during  the  night.  So  I  cared  for  it  very 
solicitously.  But  during  the  night  I  was  careless  enough  to  fall  asleep. 
When  I  awoke  again  and  came  to  consciousness  of  that  knee  again  I 
found  that  it  had  been  very  thoroughly  drenched  by  a  dribble  through 
a  gap  in  the  poncho  and  blankets,  but  was  otherwise  feeling  quite  com- 
fortable. In  the  morning  it  was  thoroughly  well.  It  was  as  if  I  had 
had  a  hot  compress  upon  it.  Henceforth  when  I  get  a  sore  knee  on  the 
march  I  shall  know  what  to  do.  I  shall  find  a  rainy  night  and  place  the 
knee  under  the  hole  in  the  blankets  to  cure  it. 

159 


The  scaling  of  the  mountain  was  a  lark— very  easy  indeed— and  the 
coming  down  was  a  regular  aeroplane  glide  down  the  snow.  We  came 
out  a  little  above  the  Columbia,  took  an  auto  stage  down  to  the  river,  the 
North  Bank  Road  to  Vancouver,  and  the  Shasta  Limited  up  from  that 
place,  arriving  at  Tacoma  at  5  in  the  morning,  fortunately  for  me, 
for  I  got  home  without  being  observed  very  much,  finally  satisfied  my 
own  watch-dog  as  to  my  identity,  and  rolled  into  a  civilized  bed  at  about 
6 :30  to  sleep  till  10.  As  mementos  of  the  trip  I  still  carry  what  grew 
on  my  upper  lip  during  the  week  and  a  couple  of  pretty  sore  shins  from 
the  descent  of  the  mountain.  But  I  am  thoroughly  satisfied  with  my 
experience  and  should  be  glad  to  try  another  such  next  summer.  I  am 
feeling  quite  "bucked  up",  as  my  Oxford  friends  would  say,  over  the 
way  I  managed  a  40  pound  pack  over  all  kinds  of  going  and  at  any  pace 
the  best  of  them  could  set. 

Concerning  R 's  story,  he  told  me  when  he  spoke  about  it,  that 

it  contained  a  theme  we  had  often  discussed  together.  This  morning, 
having  read  your  letter  last  night,  I  received  a  copy  of  Collier's  con- 
taining the  story.  The  address  was  typewritten,  so  I  concluded  without 
further  thought  that  you  had  forwarded  the  magazine  you  had  bought. 
But  later  on,  happening  to  glance  at  some  torn  papers  on  the  floor,  I 
was  surprised  to  find  that  they  were  a  letter  head  from  the  new  paper 

which  R is  editing,  and  that  he  had  sent  me  the  story.    Now  here 

is  quite  a  combination  of  coincidences,  isn't  it?  And  the  strange  part  is 
that  that  is  the  very  theme  of  the  story.     I  had  often  discussed  with 

R the  strange  premonitions  I  had  when  I  was  abroad  that  I  should 

on  certain  days  receive  letters  from  him.  It  occurred  many  a  time  that, 
as  I  went  down  to  get  my  mail,  I  thought,  today  I  get  a  letter  from  R — , 
and  I  did.  And  there  were  often  other  things  that  seemed  to  point  to  a 
strange  medium  of  communication — often  too  subtle  and  fleeting  to  put 
definitely  in  words — yet  with  a  power  to  startle  one  with  a  feeling  of 
familiarity.  I  have  forgotten  the  particular  incidents  of  the  time,  but 
I  know  that  there  were  coincidences — so  many  that  I  brought  the  subject 
up  with  him  and  we  discussed  it  after  I  came  back  home.  That,  you 
can  see,  is  the  theme  of  the  story — that  there  is  a  medium  of  communi- 
cation between  persons  very  remote  from  each  other  in  actuality.  He 
has  enlarged  it  a  bit  from  our  experience  and  made  it  concern  those 
who  were  strangers  to  each  other.  The  theory  of  the  possibility  of  men- 
tal or  spiritual  communication  has  engaged  the  attention  of  a  great 
many  bright  minds  of  late  years,  and  I  am  not  ashamed  to  own  that  I  be- 
lieve in  it  and  that  much  will  be  discovered  in  that  connection  before 
many  years  roll  by.    Now  Mark  Twain  was  as  canny  a  mind  as  you 


160 


might  well  find  in  many  a  day's  journey ;  he  believed  in  it  devoutly  and 
cited  many  instances  of  strange  coincidence.  W.  T.  Stead,  who  went 
down  on  the  Titanic,  believed  in  it.  Sir  Oliver  Lodge,  one  of  England's 
foremost  scientists,  believed  in  it ;  and  many  others.  You  exclaim  about 
the  impulse  which  compels  you  to  buy  that  particular  magazine,  make 

that  particular  remark,  and  then  turn  to  the  article  in  mind.    R 's 

story  is  also  an  exclamation,  almost  identical  in  nature  though  a  bit 
wider  in  scope;  what  phenomenon  is  it  that  brings  together  as  by  one 
impulse  people  who  are  far  remote  from  each  other  in  the  world ;  how 
do  they  come  to  be  aware  of  each  other's  existence  and  go  on  what 
seems  a  wild  goose  chase  to  find  each  other?  If  there  is  a  spiritual  med- 
ium of  communication  to  account  for  the  startling  coincidences  that  oc- 
cur in  the  lives  of  persons  who  are  acquainted  with  each  other,  it  is 
quite  possible  that  that  same  medium  might  affect  persons  who  are  not 

acquainted  with  one  another.    That's  R 's  theme.    You  can  well  say 

that  it  is  quite  possible.  But  at  the  same  time  you  would  have  to  admit 
that  the  thing  which  occurred  to  you  is  also  quite  impossible.  It  is  quite 
as  illogical  and  unreasonable  as  a  bit  of  fiction.  But  it  is  the  truth — a 
fact ;  and  therefore,  according  to  the  old  saying  it  is  naturally  stranger. 
In  that  light  don't  you  think  that  the  theme  is  pretty  well  worked  out? 
I  thought  it  was  one  of  his  best. 

I  have  just  received  a  new  volume  of  Stevenson  to  complete  the 
set  I  have  in  my  library,  containing  a  series  of  letters  hitherto  unpub- 
lished. They  include  letters  to  his  parents  and  intimate  friends  over  a 
period  of  years  from  the  time  he  was  seventeen  till  his  death.  I  have 
dipped  into  several  of  them  and  find  them  delightful.  In  his  personal 
correspondence  he  is  a  most  whimsical  and  entertaining  man,  and  evi- 
dently as  careful  in  his  abandon  as  in  his  serious  work,  if  that  isn't  too 
paradoxical.  It  seems  to  be  carefully  wrought  foolery.  That  is,  the 
whim  with  which  he  begins  may  be  careless  enough,  but  he  carries  it  out 
carefully. 


SEATTLE,  Jan.  15,  1916 
Dear  R : 

I  haven't  been  able  to  finish  The  Mummer's  Wife  since  it 
came,  and  can  therefore  give  no  account  of  it — except  that  it  falls  far 
short  of  The  Brook  Kerith,  in  my  opinion.  Carnival  by  Compton  Mac- 
kenzie seems  to  do  the  stage  life  so  much  more  satisfactorily  for  me. 
I  admit  that  my  preference  is  dite  to  something  of  a  gleam  of  romance. 


161 


-6 


possibly,  in  the  Carnival  version.  I  am  supposed  to  be  the  real  realist 
defender  among  the  men  in  the  department ;  so  that  it  seems  to  be  quite 
a  momentous  confession  to  make  to  say  that  a  gleam  of  romance  in  a 
book  makes  it  more  attractive  to  me  than  some  other.  Dead  Souls,  with 
all  its  unattractiveness  in  title,  which  is  undeserved,  by  the  way,  is  more 
to  my  liking;  yet  it  poses  to  be  a  forerunner  of  all  realism  in  Russia. 
Whether  George  Moore  is  realism  or  not  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  it  is. 
It  is  what  is  conventionally  called  so,  since  it  is  depressing.  The  wife  is 
impossible;  and  George  can't  convince  me  that  she  is  credible.  If  she  is, 
she  doesn't  belong  in  a  book,  but  in  an  infirmary.  The  girl  in  Carnival 
had  her  fling,  but  she  proved  to  have  decency  in  the  end :  she,  at  least, 
put  up  a  plucky  fight  against  things,  and  died  well.  But — well,  I  have- 
n't finished  The  Mummer's  Wife,  and  cannot  be  too  certain  about  judg- 
ments upon  some  furtive  peering  into  the  later  pages  of  the  book  .... 

I  have  been  looking  over  Murray's  pamphlet  a  bit  since  it  came— 
I  am  grateful  for  it ;  it  will  help  me  in  many  ways.  The  more  I  read  of 
Grey,  the  more  I  like  him.  This  evening  I  chanced  upon  a  paper  on  him 
in  Collier's  by  Frank  Harris.  Now  I  suppose  Frank  has  about  as  little 
use  for  things  English  as  a  German ;  but  I  must  admit  that  he  draws  a 
very  pleasing  portrait  of  Grey.  I  expected  to  see  Harris  flay  him  en- 
tirely. Murray  has  always  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  very  successful  plead- 
er in  whatever  cause  he  argues  for.  I  do  not  mean  that  he  is  a 
special  pleader ;  but  that  his  conviction  of  the  truth  of  his  presentation 
is  so  transparently  the  result  of  careful  consideration  of  the  possible  in- 
terpretations that  it  carries  weight  without  much  more  ado.  What  I 
have  read  of  the  pamphlet  is  pleasing  to  my  views. 

As  I  consider  the  question  that  I  am  asked  to  speak  on  I  become 
more  convinced  that  I  shall  merely  indicate  what  almost  insensible 
things  have  come  into  my  experience  to  make  my  reason  favor  the  Al- 
"  lied  cause.  I  have  in  mind  things  of  seeming  trivial  import  at  the  time, 
during  the  past  ten  years,  since  I  was  in  England,  which  have  been  grad- 
ually accumulating  their  weight  to  make  me  lean  the  way  I  do.  There 
is  so  much,  to  the  point  and  off,  said  about  the  philosophy  of  the  Ger- 
mans, and  the  ideals  of  the  English,  and  others,  that  it  seems  an  utter 
bore  to  me  now  to  rehash  all  the  long  platitude  again.  After  all,  I  am 
choosing  my  readings  rather  carefully  according  to  predilections  already 
formed;  they  are  not  changing  my  fundamental  opinions.  These  are 
based  upon  things  more  difficult  to  estimate.  I  think  it  would  be  inter- 
esting to  me  to  try  to  do  the  estimating.  If  it  turns  out  to  be  passably  in- 
teresting I  shall  send  you  a  copy. 


SEATTLE,  Oct.  24,  1916 
DearR : 

I  have  at  length  finished  The  Brook  Kerith.  And  just  now 
I  read  a  review  in  The  Nation  lambasting  it.  They  sure  give  it  some 
hell.  Nevertheless,  I  stick  with  my  original  interpretation  that  it  is  a 
fine  piece  of  work.  In  many  respects  The  Nation  is  intolerably  prig- 
gish. It  has  some  halfbaked  philosopher  on  its  reviewing  staff  who 
thinks  he  is  the  last  word  when  it  comes  to  thinking  straight.  So  the 
work  must  be  drawn  and  quartered  because  Moore  isn't  a  philosopher, 
doesn't  think  logically.  And  he  is  sentimental.  Well,  any  poet  who 
thinks  straight,  according  to  the  syllogism,  and  is  a  good  hard  matter- 
of-fact  man  without  any  monkey  business  in  his  nature,  is  a  rotten  poet, 
and  a  rotten  novelist,  usually.  And  I  had  always  had  the  pleasant  delu- 
sion that  Jesus  wasn't  such  shucks  as  a  logician  himself.  It  occurs  to 
me  that  his  favorite  way  of  avoiding  contradictions  was  to  tell  a  parable. 
It^even  seems  that  there  are  so  many  contradictions  in  his  teaching  that 
the  world  doesn't  know  yet  what  he  taught.  God  knows  there  are 
enough  differences  of  opinion  called  by  the  name  Christian  for  one  to 
believe  in  no  mystical  way  that  there  must  be  some  difficulty  in  inter- 
preting the  teaching.  Hence,  I  assume,  it  can't  be  logical,  or  rational 
(in  the  narrow  way).  If  a  man  tries  in  his  way  to  give  a  consistency 
or  meaning  to  the  teaching,  or  some  interpretation  satisfactory  to  it, 
which  isn't  irreverent,  that  is  worthy  of  respect.  I  find  it  well  worth 
while  at  all  events.  It  does  strike  one  as  odd  in  many  ways.  But  I 
fancy  that  if  one  might  have  been  transported  to  the  time  and  the  place, 
the  reality  would  have  sounded  more  odd  than  Moore's  fiction.  The  re- 
viewer for  The  Nation  would  have  stood  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd 
and  wondered  why  so  absurd  a  man  with  such  quaint  naivete  in  his 
thinking  processes  should  be  allowed  public  license  to  preach,  had  he 
been  there — of  that  there  can  be  no  question. 


SEATTLE,  Nov.  19, 1916 


Dear  R- 


This  morning  P and  I  took  a  really  good  hike  north  along 

the  Bothell  road  and  across  country  to  the  Edmonds  road  and  back 
home,  a  couple  of  hours  of  as  brisk  walking  as  we  could  do — then  baths 
and  preparation  for  dinner.  Then  at  2 :30  we  were  down  at  the  Dream- 
land pavilion  where  a  Free  Speech  meeting  had  been  scheduled  as  a 
result  of  the  Everett  riot.    There  was  a  free  speech  demonstration  down 


I6,n 


at  Dreamland  a  number  of  years  ago,  you  will  remember,  in  connection 

with  the  high-handed  outrages  of  J H in  the  name  of  Law  and 

Order.  This  time  there  is  a  protest  against  similar  high-handed  metH- 
ods  in  the  name  of  Law  and  Order.  I  should  say  that  it  was  as  orderly 
a  meeting  as  one  might  well  expect  to  find  at  a  time  of  high  tension. 
Certainly,  if  one  were  to  judge  by  the  printed  reports  of  sympathetic 

papers  concerning  the Club  meeting  the  other  night,  stampeded  by 

J B ,  it  was  a  much  less  emotional  meeting  than  that  was. 

There  was  no  interruption  of  the  speakers  except  by  goodnatured  ap- 
plause, the  speakers  were  restrained  in  their  utterance,  and  there  was  an 
obvious  serious  intent  to  get  at  the  purpose  of  the  meeting.  The 
speakers  all  emphasized,  of  course,  the  need  of  protecting  the  right  of 
free  speech,  and  quoted  from  the  U.  S.  and  state  constitutions  and  from 
various  constitutional  authorities  statements  concerning  the  nature  of  the 
right  and  the  guarantees  of  it.  All  emphasized  that  the  disaster  at  Ev- 
erett was  the  direct  result  of  only  one  thing — the  deprivation  of  certain 
citizens  of  the  right  of  free  speech.  And  there  was  a  severe  condemna- 
tion of  the  extra-legal  method  whereby  the  right  of  free  speech  had 
been  abridged  there.  It  was  interesting  to  me  to  see  how  even  the 
L  W.  W.  had  come  sufficiently  under  the  notice  of  the  public  for  them  to 
begin  to  inquire  into  the  purpose  of  the  organization  and  the  facts  upon 
which  its  propaganda  was  being  based.  It  seems  to  have  come  to  the 
intelligence  of  our  communities  that  an  organization  which  has  such 
loyal  followers,  willing  to  suffer  anything  for  its  cause,  must  have  some 
cause ;  for  it  is  not  the  customary  human  experience  for  men  to  become 
so  inspired  for  a  movement  unless  that  movement  is  based  upon  some- 
thing essentially  just.  The  meeting  expressed  clearly  one  outstanding 
fact ;  that  the  daily  press,  the  so-called  general  public  press,  had  en- 
tirely forfeited  its  right  to  any  credence  any  longer.  That  was  re- 
peatedly emphasized.  Reports  from  the  press,  garbling  the  entire  story, 
were  read,  along  with  the  statements  of  men  who  had  followed  the 
movement  at  Everett  from  the  beginning,  oftentimes  as  eye-witnesses 
of  the  events.  The  labor  member  from  Everett  told  of  his  experiences 
in  seeing  how  men  were  arrested  for  street-speaking  and  advised  to  quit 
the  town  and  not  come  back.  He  made  it  clear  that  the  officers 
who  did  the  arresting  were  entirely  beyond  their  rights  in  doing  as  they 
did  from  time  to  time,  even  mentioning  how  he  had  made  the  remark 
to  the  officer  at  times,  apparently  as  a  friend,  but  with  the  response 
that  it  didn't  matter  whether  it  was  legal  or  not,  the  men  would  be  driv- 
en out.  He  spoke  of  the  campaign  of  terrorism  finally  instituted  in  or- 
der to  keep  laboring  men  away,  culminating  in  the  gauntlet  affair  in 
which  the  men  were  so  badly  beaten  up.    A  certain  man  who  lives  near 


164 


the  place  where  this  happened  remonstrated  with  the  citizens  in  their 
administration  of  Law  and  Order,  to  be  met  with  the  observation  that 
if  he  didn't  clear  out  he  would  get  a  bit  of  the  same.  He  phoned  to  the 
police  what  was  going  on  and  was  told  that  it  was  beyond  their  jurisdic- 
tion, being  outside  of  the  city  limits.  The  speaker  himself  went  out  to 
the  place  the  next  day  and  found  it  looking  like  a  battle  scene,  with 
blood  spattered  all  around  and  articles  of  clothing  left  lying  about. 

S S read  a  letter  from  a  citizen  of  Seattle,  name  not  men- 
tioned, but  who  would  be  known  by  three-fourths  of  the  persons  pres- 
ent should  it  be  mentioned,  in  which  he  told  of  being  on  a  train  coming 
back  from  Everett  that  night  and  seeing  a  number  of  men  get  on  the 
train  at  the  city  limits,  with  their  clothes  all  torn,  what  they  had  left — 
most  of  them  were  without  some  article  or  other  of  clothing — their  heads 
bandaged  with  bloodsoaked  towels,  their  arms  and  hands  tied  up  with 
strips  of  overalls,  and  in  general  pretty  badly  beaten  up.  They  were  en- 
tirely sober;  so  that  he  conjectured  that  there  had  been  an  accident  in 
a  logging  camp,  a  collision  on  a  logging  train  or  something. 

The  man  from  Everett,  by  the  way,  said  that  things  had  come  to 
such  a  pass  that  any  man  wearing  overalls  in  Everett  was  in  danger 
of  the  citizens'  committee.  ***** 

The  opinion  of  the  meeting  seemed  to  be  that  the  whole  trouble  be- 
gan really  with  the  attempt  to  break  up  the  shingle  and  longshoremen's 
strikes ;  that  is,  the  free  speech  campaign  instituted  by  the  I.  W.  W.  was 
an  attempt  to  organize  laborers  there  in  aid  of  the  shingleweavers' 
strike.  But  the  mill  owners  worked  up  the  sentiment  for  a  citizens'  com- 
mittee *  *********  and  packed 
the  group  of  deputy  sheriffs  with  their  own  sympathizers  and  even 
with  strike-breakers  whom  they  had  imported.  It  was  as  clear  a  case 
of  one  class  attempting  to  rule  a  community  and  to  terrorize  their  op- 
ponents as  might  well  be  found  in  the  country. 

W gave  an  explanation  of  the  song  which  the  I.  W.  W.'s  are 

said  to  have  sung  on  the  Verona  on  their  way  to  Everett.  The  song 
which  they  are  supposed  to  have  sung,  read  with  great  dramatic  effect 

at  the Club  meeting  as  a  blasphemous  song,  was  said  not  to  be  an 

I.  W.  W.  song  and  was  not  sung,  according  to  the  testimony  of  the  men 
on  the  boat;  instead  they  sang  their  "Hold  the  Fort"  after  the  well- 
known  religious  air.  This  they  sang  at  the  meeting.  Had  I  closed  my 
eyes,  I  might  have  sworn  the  song  was  being  sung  in  a  quiet  church 
in  the  country.  I  noticed  especially  the  way  a  couple  of  men  directly 
behind  me  sang  it — not  intensely,  not  as  if  covering  a  burning  passion, 
but  hesitatingly,  awkwardly,  stumbling  over  the  words,  and  with  con- 
viction, sometimes  not  much  more  than  whispering  it,  as  if  content  with 


speaking  to  themselves  of  a  vision.  The  words  had  been  read  by  W — 
They  spoke  of  the  laborers  marching  onvi^ard  toward  a  better  time  and 
away  from  the  miseries  and  wretchedness  of  the  present.  I  suppose 
nothing  was  needed  in  addition  to  the  singing  of  that  song  to  convince 
me  that  the  I.  W.  W.'s  need  not  go  to  any  Sabbath  services  in  any 
church  in  order  to  express  their  religious  convictions.  And  I  should 
say  that  if  they  sang  that  way  on  their  way  to  Everett  that  Sunday  they 
were  celebrating  the  Sabbath  in  an  eminently  fitting  manner 

B B probably  got  more  near  to  passion  in  his  speech  than 

any  one  else.  He  certainly  came  through  in  an  unmistakable  manner. 
At  the  conclusion  of  his  speech  he  read  a  set  of  resolutions  calling  upon 
Congress  to  investigate  the  entire  affair  from  beginning  to  end.  The 
resolutions  were  adopted  by  a  standing  vote.  I  hope  something  will 
result  from  it,  but  I  am  afraid  that  Congress  will  not  order  an  investiga- 
tion. I  suppose  some  commission  will  be  given  charge  of  the  work. 
B ,  by  the  way,  read  of  the  manner  in  which  free  speech  distur- 
bances had  been  dealt  with  in  other  communities  in  a  similar  brutal  way, 
from  the  report  of  the  Industrial  Relations  investigation.  One  might 
have  thought  that  the  citizens  of  Everett,  so-called,  had  read  the  re- 
port for  the  purpose  of  enacting  a  similar  reign  of  brutality  there.  But 
probably  not  one  of  them  ever  even  saw  the  report.  Now  I  suppose 
there  are  many  good  citizens  hereabouts,  who,  in  the  face  of  the  Everett 
tragedy  will  still  insist  that  that  report  was  much  exaggerated.  Indeed 
we  read  that  reporters  give  accounts  of  the  warfare  in  Europe  in  which 
they  exaggerate.  Men  are  no  doubt  killed  there;  but  how  gloriously 
and  splendidly;  heroically!    What  a  breeder  of  spiritual  qualities!    I 

heard  tales  of  the  front  told  by  C direct  from  officers  who  were 

home  on  leave.  What  he  told  us  passes  beyond  anything  that  I  have 
read  yet  in  the  way  of  coldblooded  brutality,  and  on  the  side  that  I 
should  like  to  favor,  the  English.  It  is  absolutely  incredibl?  what  men 
are  told  to  do  and  do  do  in  warfare.  It  is  all  atrocity — not  only  in 
Belgium.  When  these  things  are  true,  I  am  prepared  to  believe  that  In- 
dustrial Commission  reports  cannot  be  made  black  enough  to  picture  the 
truth ;  war  only  uncovers ;  it  must  be  all  there  before.  And  it  is  in  the 
relations  between  laborers  and  their  masters  that  the  thing  lies  scarcely 
beneath  the  surface.      ***** 

In  comparison  with  these  things  there  isn't  much  to  say.     R 

and  I  went  to  a  good  picture  at  the  Liberty  and  enjoyed  it  very  much. 
The  day  is  a  lovely  one.  It  was  misty  this  morning,  with  a  patch  of 
wonderful  blue  visible  overhead  every  now  and  then  and  the  sun  just 
to  be  seen  all  the  time.    At  noon  it  was  clear  and  as  balmy  as  a  spring 


166 


day.  The  streets  in  town  were  packed  with  people,  and  the  crowd  at 
the  Liberty  the  biggest  I  have  seen  there. 

Me,  I  am  poring  over  Plato.  I  am  trying  along  with  Socrates  and 
his  friends  to  find  out  what  justice  is.  I  find  the  study  very  apropos. 
I  shall  be  reading  my  paper  before  the  Philolog  soon;  I  think  it  will 
galvanize  them,  as  I  read  it  over  again  and  patch  it  here  and  there. 

In  December,  I  am  to  give  a  talk  to  some  boys  down  at  the  Y.  M. 

C.  A.  on  "Books  and  Reading"  at  the  invitation  of  W R .  I  don't 

know  what  to  do  with  that ;  but  I  guess  I  shall  be  able  to  bull  through 
with  something.  I  don't  relish  that  very  much.  My  reading  gets  more 
philosophical  all  the  time ;  and  I  find  it  hard  to  give  the  ordinary  reasons 
for  reading.  Still,  perhaps  I  can  after  all.  If  philosophy  isn't  common 
sense  it  isn't  much  good.  And  I  believe  it  is  common  sense  in  highfalu- 
tin  language.    I'll  step  the  language  down  a  few  thousand  volts. 


Friday 

Dear  R : 

At  two  today  I  finished  the  day's  conferences,  after  a  contin- 
uous session  since  eight  o'clock.  I  feel  that  the  week's  work  is  so  near- 
ly disposed  of  that  I  may  indulge  in  a  letter  to  the  young  prof.  I  can't 
call  you  the  old  prof  yet,  of  course ;  but  believe  me,  it  will  not  be  long 
before  you  will  overhear  the  students  telling  about  the  old  prof  in  a  sly 
manner.  I  do  recognize  (or  pretend  to  recognize)  that  the  "old"  is  not 
so  much  expressive  sometimes  of  age  as  of  a  certain  ineptitude,  supposed 
at  least,  (with  apologies  to  the  Republic)  which  is  to  be  found  in  the 
teaching  profession.  One  of  the  crosses  you  are  going  to  have  to  bear ; 
but  rather  light,  that  one,  after  all. 

The  fact  which  you  have  discovered  concerning  the  class-room 
work's  proportion  of  the  teacher's  work  in  toto,  is  a  rather  easy  one  to 
discover,  unless  you  are  a  bluffer;  in  which  case  I  suspect  there  isn't 
much  of  anything  to  discover,  and  consequently,  to  learn.  The  things 
which  are  not  so  easy  to  discover  (weren't  to  me,  at  least)  are  the  more 
human  relations  to  your  fellow-workers.  I  had  no  conception  for  a 
number  of  years  what  are  the  forces  continually  at  work  underneath 
the  complacent  surface  of  academic  life,  the  significance  of  certain 
friendships,  of  certain  coolnesses,  and  certain  extravagances  in  protes- 
tations of  regard,  of  certain  innocent  academic  innovations,  of,  in  short, 
the  complex  woof  of  an  apparently  simply  textured  life.  We  are  all 
here  presumably  out  of  our  whole-hearted  devotion  to  learning.  Cer- 
tainly I  was,  and  I  was  wholly  at  the  command  of  those  who  I  con- 
ceived were  here  for  similar  reasons,  and  that  was  of  course,  all  the 

167 


group.  It  is  only  of  comparatively  recent  years  that  I  have  become  more 
aware  of  the  whole  comic,  or  maybe  tragi-comic,  interplay.  I  have  al- 
ways enjoyed  a  game,  learning  it,  and  playing  it.  This  I  have  begun  to 
learn  to  play,  but  always  with  some  misgivings  whether  by  learning  and 
playing  it  I  were  not  making  a  sacrifice  of  some  kind  which  at  a  later 
time  I  may  come  to  regret.  I  seem  to  feel  convinced,  however,  that  by 
this  time,  the  right  attitude  towards  the  profession  may  have  become  so 
firmly  ingrained  that  it  will  keep  me  instinctively  from  making  the  sa- 
crifice. That  is,  I  feel  that  it  need  not  necessarily  derogate  from  the 
value  of  one's  ideals  to  take  a  hand  in  seeing  that  they  prevail.  Ideals 
do  have  a  habit  of  speaking,  for  themselves  in  the  long  run.  But  when 
one  sees  other  things  than  ideals  not  only  speaking  for  themselves  so- 
norously but  having  other  forces  mobilized  for  their  eventual  triumph, 
one  is  sorely  tempted  to  interpose  among  those  forces  and  do  a  little 
pulling  and  hauling  too.  Wilson  appeals  to  me  because  I  conceive  him 
to  be  a  man  firmly  based  upon  high  principles  of  conduct  as  any  man 
I  have  so  far  understood  to  be  great,  and  yet  a  man  who  understands  and 
manipulates  the  forces  with  which  men  work — in  that  respect  like  Lin- 
coln, than  whom  this  world  has  seen  few  greater.  I  didn't  intend  this 
to  be  a  homily.  But  there  were  those  who  at  one  time  saw  in  me  a  po- 
tential preacher  of  God's  word.  I  didn't.  Man's  best  words  seemed 
good  enough  for  me,  and  they  may  be  propagated  from  other  sources 
than  the  pulpit.    Well,  in  other  words,  and  in  brief,  you  will  sometime 

discover  at  M in  the  faculty  a  most  fascinating  game  being  played 

all  around  you.  Maybe  you  are  much  more  versed  in  the  ways  of  men 
than  I  was  and  have  already  the  secret  of  the  game ;  still  I  believe  there 
are  phases  of  it,  lights  and  shades,  depths  and  shallows,  that  will  be  re- 
vealed only  after  a  longer  lapse  of  time.    All  by  way  of  encouragement. 


Tuesday 


Dear  R- 


D A dropped  in  on  me  again  last  night  on  his  regular 

Monday  night  off.  We  were  both  somewhat  out  of  sorts  when  he  ar- 
rived :  I  secretly  felt  that  I  should  have  preferred  to  be  alone,  and  he 
aware  of  it ;  so  that  it  didn't  promise  to  be  a  good  evening.  But  it  soon 
came  around  to  an  exchange  of  opinion  upon  questions  of  experience  in 
writing,  and  we  eventually  both  thawed  out  and  had  a  fine  conference. 

D is  still  concerned  about  what  is  best  to  do.   He  isn't  satisfied  by  a 

long  shot.  But  he  doesn't  know  what  he  would  be  better  satisfied  about. 
I  try  to  encourage  him  to  work — and  keep  the  flame  burning.    I  think 

168 


that  it  takes  time,  of  course — I  have  to  think  that  naturally  enough  to 
save  my  own  face — so  I  try  to  put  it  up  to  him  that  while  a  man  works 
at  things  apparently  unrelated  to  the  grand  object,  things  nevertheless 
are  conspiring  in  his  favor.  The  great  trouble  of  course  is  the  limited 
amount  of  time  and  energy  left  available  after  the  exactions  of  his 
work  are  satisfied.  It  leaves  little  time  for  the  careful  thought  a  man 
would  like  to  put  into  actual  creative  effort.  But  even  while  he  is 
working  at  the  humdrum  of  the  job  he  is  ripening;  and  when  a  man 
has  a  considerable  command  of  the  technique,  the  essential  thing  is  the 
accumulation  of  impressions  and  experiences,  as  I  have  told  you  ad 
nauseam,  time  and  time  again.  I  have  evidence  right  out  of  his  exper- 
ience to  prove  my  contention ;  for  he  brought  me  a  poem  that  appeared 
in  a  recent  issue  of  the  Bellman,  which  shows  me  that  he  has  been 
growing  since  he  last  wrote  out  here.  It  has  strength,  and  definiteness, 
and  precision.    I  give  it  to  you  here : 

PINES 

Freehanded  nature  spends  a  thousand  seeds 

To  rear  a  single  pine  against  the  sky; 

Starward  to  a  point  that  one  clear  shaft,  she  breeds 

The  rest  that  seek  to  climb,  and  seeking,  die. 

Yet  somewhere  in  a  muddied  swamp  there  grow 

Rank  things  that  thrive  from  every  spark  set  free — 

Base,  greedy  plants  that  are  contented  so, 

If  only  their  lush  life  cease  not  to  be. 

Like  men  who  scan  the  giddy,  barren  edge 

Whereon  the  spirit  walks,  testing  the  soul, 

But  they,  unheeding  of  the  summons,  hedge, 

And  choose  the  softer  path,  the  closer  goal. 

That  truth  and  beauty  both  are  born  of  pain. 

They  know  not,  nor  shall  know  clear  joy  again. 

J. D. A. 

********* 

I  struck  out  for  Ballard  yesterday  to  get  some  belated  exercise. 
It  was  a  windy  evening.  By  the  time  I  got  to  the  canal  it  was  raining 
furiously.  I  beat  my  way  back  to  the  house  in  the  teeth  of  a  gale,  and 
arrived  here  wet  to  the  skin.  It  was  one  of  our  regular  fall  gales  out 
of  the  southeast.  Ballard  seemed  like  a  small  natural  Bedlam  as  I 
passed  through.  The  wind  whining  through  the  wires  overhead,  the 
steam  exhausts  of  various  kinds  roaring,  or  hissing  or  howling  from 
the  mills,  the  smoke  torn  from  the  stacks  and  whirled  along  the  ground, 
the  steam  whirled  into  shreds  of  white  mist,  now  and  then  some  shriek- 

169 


ing  whistle  in  the  dim,  incessant  rattle  of  riveting  in  the  boiler  shops, 
spicy  cedar  smells  and  pungent  fir  smoke — these  impressions  mingled 
together  in  an  indescribable  confusion.  The  wind  seemed  to  be  com- 
posed of  all  these  things  as  it  almost  overwhelmed  one,  with  heavy  rain 
adding  its  considerable  force  to  the  impact.  I  felt  exultant  in  the  face 
of  it.  That's  the  kind  of  a  walk  I  like  to  take.  Walking  when  the  ele- 
ments are  at  rest  is  satisfying,  too;  but  when  they  are  in  violent  mo- 
tion as  they  were  yesterday,  it  is  more  so.  Although  I  got  back  thor- 
oughly battered  and  wet,  when  I  had  got  into  new  clothes  and  the  old 
were  steaming  over  the  radiator,  I  felt  quite  comfortable  up  here  in  the 
old  den. 


SEATTLE,  Nov.  25,  1916 
Dear  R : 

Think  of  the  Down  East  statesmen  having  to  learn  lessons 
from  the  men  out  of  the  forests  and  plains  and  mountains  of  the  West. 
Out  of  the  West,  emblem  of  the  better  future,  towards  which  states- 
manship must  ever  continue  to  look,  comes  the  man  who  must  guide 
toward  that  future.  Tell  me,  what  will  happen  on  this  sphere  when  all 
the  lands  will  have  been  colonized,  when  there  will  be  no  west  more,  no 
land  for  the  forward-lookmg,  when  all  the  countries  will  have  become 
"mother  countries,"  all  will  have  settled  down  to  the  practice  off  use 
and  wont,  will  have  come  to  that  point  where  all  seem  to  arrive  in 
time?  Will  there  be  no  progressivism  then?  Or  will  the  vision- 
ing  of  a  future  be  the  normal  thinking  of  men  ?  Instead  of  the  grasp- 
ing of  what  they  have,  uncertain  of  anything  else  ?  Will  then  that  gold- 
en land  of  the  west,  which  has  beckoned  to  men  since  Aryan  civiliza- 
tion began,  but  which  will  then  be  no  more  in  reality,  have  become  a 
land  of  promise  in  the  minds,  the  dreams,  of  men,  only  to  be  attained 
then  as  before  by  the  hardy  pioneer  spirits  who  will  brave  the  hazards 
along  the  way  and  trust  to  their  own  courage  and  resourcefulness  to 
build  their  homes  there,  strong  and  stable,  when  they  will  have  arrived  ? 
How  long  will  it  take  men  to  learn  that  when  the  geographical  empires 
are  exploited  there  are  empires  within  their  own  spirits  greater  than 
any  they  will  ever  have  exploited  without?  I  wonder  sometimes  if 
Wilson  isn't  the  turning  point  toward  real  scientific  government.  If 
the  technique  of  government  as  it  must  be  sometime  is  found  in  his  at- 
titude toward  it  on  the  question  of  the  Adamson  law,  then  he  is  a  great 
pioneer  in  the  new  government.  And  I  believe  it  is  found  there.  Grasp 
a  new  vision  of  things ;  experiment  with  it,  observe  carefully  and  record 
scientifically ;  do  the  results  accord  with  your  hypothesis  ?    The  method 

170 


of  science.  But  be  bold.  Costly  failures  will  not  be  a  thousandth  part 
so  expensive  as  the  war  which  under  our  present  dispensation  will 
sooner  or  later  come  devouring  all  you  will  have  carefully  saved  by 
your  niggardliness  and  fear.  The  statesman  of  the  future,  I  believe, 
will  be  the  supreme  artist  among  men,  shaping  ideals  of  use  and  beauty 
out  of  human  life.    There  is  a  medium  for  an  artist  to  work  in,  eh  ? 

I  suppose  you  notice  that  the  boys  have  acquired  a  bear.  The  pun- 
ning faculties  of  the  house  have  been  busy  with  that  bear  since  he  ar- 
rived. I  have  become  the  butt  of  the  faculty  wits  that  I  meet  about  that 
bear  of  mine.  He  is  a  funny  brute,  and  interesting.  But  I  fancy  he  will 
become  a  nuisance  before  many  weeks  roll  along.  So  long  as  he  is  still 
an  object  of  interest  to  everybody  who  sees  him  when  he  is  being  led 
along  by  a  bunch  of  the  men  he  will  be  worth  their  attention.  But  so 
soon  as  it  is  discovered  by  the  men  that  he  is  no  longer  an  object  of  uni- 
versal attention — no  more  so  than  a  dog  on  a  chain — he  will  become  a 
tedious  concern.  I  guess  they  will  have  donated  him  to  the  Park  Board 
before  Christmas.  In  the  meantime  I  will  have  to  answer  questions 
about  the  bear  from  the  wits:  Hear  you  had  to  move  out  of  the  Beta 
House?  Oh  no,  I'm  still  there;  how  did  you  get  that  idea?  Well,  thought 
maybe  they  gave  the  bear  your  room?  Is  there  anything  to  the  story 
that  they  are  making  the  bear  room  with  you  down  at  the  house  ?  Aren't 
you  having  bear  steaks  on  Thanksgiving  ?  And  many  of  the  same  brand. 
I  hope  the  faculty  wit  isn't  often  provoked  to  expression.  It's  far  worse 
than  the  bear.    Time  to  quit. 


SEATTLE,  Dec.  28,  1916 
Dear  R : 

Tacoma  has  been  a  very  restful  place  up  till  now ;  but  I  don't 
find  Seattle  any  the  less  so.  I  have  planned  trips,  up  the  mountain,  out  to 
camp,  long  walks,  and  so  forth,  but  I  am  still  content  to  stick  around 
the  house  here  and  loaf — no  less  than  you.  At  Tacoma  I  might  walk 
an  hour  a  day  or  so,  or  walk  down  town  and  back  on  shopping  tours — 
when  I  wake  up  from  those  shopping  tours,  by  the  way,  I  find  that 
Christmas  is  an  expensive  holiday — but  that's  about  all.  1  did  do  some 
painting  for  Mother.  It  wasn't  exactly  what  I  would  call  exercise.  I 
read  a  bit :  Foma  Gordyeef  by  Gorky,  The  Duel  by  Kuprin,  The  Sweet- 
scented  Name  by  Sologub,  Those  of  his  Own  Household  by  Rene  Bazin, 
The  Emperor  of  Portugalia  by  Selma  Lagerlof,  some  novelettes  by 
Knut  Hamsun  in  Norwegian  (it's  almost  impossible  to  get  anything  by 
him  in  translation ;  and  then  the  old  platitude  about  things  losing  flavor 

171 


in  translation  is  strikingly  true  in  his  case),  and  a  bit  of  Santayana  on 
German  Philosophy.  And  a  little  in  a  work  on  the  beginnings  of  Eng- 
lish literary  prose.  I  see  I  have  covered  a  bit  of  ground,  but  nearly 
all  fiction.  I  remember  reading  two  novels  and  a  couple  of  those  novel- 
ettes in  one  day.  And  then  I  slept  a  good  deal.  I  discovered  that  I 
might  sleep  late  mornings  without  fear  of  headaches  and  enjoyed  that 
very  much.    I  think  I  am  pretty  well  rested.  *  *  * 

I  get  rather  ashamed  of  myself  about  my  laziness.  I  should  think 
that  the  writing  ought  to  come  as  a  relaxation  for  me  after  my  long 
hours  over  at  college.  But  I  find  myself  looking  forward  to  a  sitting 
at  the  machine  much  as  a  penitential  program;  and  I  convince  myself 
that  I  have  nothing  to  do  penance  for.    I  am  having  an  acute  attack  of 

conscience  lately  over  this  matter.     I  mentioned  in  a  letter  to  H 

who  has  recently  turned  out  his  first  history  (he  is  a  Rhodes  Scholar  of 
my  time,  a  Beta)  that  I  had  some  things  boiling  within,  to  which 
he  retorted — justly — "there  are  two  perils  in  allowing  the  boiling  to  con- 
tinue without  attention:  there  is  danger  of  an  explosion;  and  there  is 
the  possibility  of  the  stuff  that  boils  all  vanishing  in  vapor  uncon- 
densed."  He  makes  too  literal  a  figure  of  it ;  I  Had  in  mind  Stevenson's 
practice  in  writing  his  essays ;  but  the  warning  is  apt.    *  *  *  * 

Your  letter  just  came,  along  with  the  magazines  that  I  came  over 
for.  I  congratulate  my.self  on  our  weather  still  more.  Concerning 
John  Hay,  there's  a  man  for  whom  I  have  had  deep  respect  without 
knowing  anything  definite  about  his  life  and  career.  You  may  be  sur- 
prised to  know  why  I  had  the  respect  for  him  on  such  slender  know- 
ledge. It  came  from  odd  hints  and  suggestions  here  and  there.  For  in- 
stance, I  knew  of  Hay  as  a  literary  figure  before  I  knew  of  him  as  an 
exceptional  diplomat.  I  knew  that  he  was  a  poet,  a  novelist,  and  a  hu- 
morist. I  learned  these  things  at  about  the  time  when  I  wondered  why 
it  was  that  American  statesmen  were  never  interestd  in  literary  matters 
as  so  many  of  the  great  European  statesmen  were.  The  one  great  recom- 
mendation for  Roosevelt  for  me  in  those  days  was  that  he  had  done 
a  great  deal  of  historical  and  other  writing  and  that  seemed  to  me  to 
augur  well  for  the  future  of  American  statesmanship.  Ha  man  so 
strenuous  and  mascuTme  as  Roosevelt  could  combine  politics  with  liter- 
ary avocations  then  maybe  the  literary  man  might  eventually  be  regard- 
ed as  not  necessarily  incapacitated  for  statesmanship.  Then  I  learned 
of  the  high  quality  of  Hay's  work,  and  began  to  think  of  him  as  another 
who  was  pointing  the  way.  Somehow  this  literary  activity  argued  in 
my  mind  a  sort  of  personal  disinterestedness  in  a  statesman  such  as  our 
traditions  seemed  to  lack.  A  statesman,  or  politician,  as  we  thought  of 
them  ought  to  be  working  for  their  own  interests.    Surely  they  did.  They 

172 


didn't  have  any  time  for  literature.  That  requires  an  understanding  of 
life,  not  only  of  interests.  And  I  had  the  notion  that  our  statesmen 
might  well  know  something  about  human  life,  too,  without  losing  effi- 
ciency as  statesmen.  That's  why  I  liked  Hay.  On  your  recommend- 
ation I  shall  try  to  find  time  to  read  of  his  life. 

I  did  read  John  Reed's  account  of  the  Bayonne  affair  soon  after  the 
Metropolitan  came ;  but  I  omitted  the  account  of  John  Lawson  because  I 
imagined  what  it  would  be.  The  Colorado  affair  I  followed  pretty 
closely  at  the  time  of  the  ruction  and  I  think  I  would  only  find  corrobor- 
ation for  what  I  already  knew.  My  father  has  taken  the  little  Socialist 
weekly  The  Appeal  to  Reason  for  a  number  of  years.  I  have  been  in- 
terested in  observing  how  that  paper  manages  to  get  at  the  facts  of  the 
industrial  upheavals  about  a  year  ahead  of  all  other  papers.  And  al- 
though they  are  treated  sometimes  in  a  highly  colored  way,  a  manner  of 
treatment  they  have  learned  from  the  capitalist  yellow  press  long  before 
them,  the  facts  are  usually  to  be  found  there.  This  I  have  ascertained 
"  by  noticing  how  magazine  articles,  reviewing  in  a  dispassionate  way  the 
same  occurrences  long  after  the  event,  have  given  me  material  which  I 
already  have,  and  nothing  new,  and  little  different.  Reed's  articles  car- 
ried out  also  the  suggestion  given  in  the  New  Republic's  announcement 
of  the  unfairness  of  the  New  York  press  concerning  the  strike.  As  a 
pendant  to  that  article  of  Reed's  I  notice  that  Standard  Oil  is  now  ad- 
vertising (or  the  Associated  Press  is  carrying  highly  complimentary 
articles,  which  is  the  same  thing,  I  imagine)  an  increase  of  wages  and 
the  reduction  of  working  hours  to  the  uniform  eight  on  the  Pacific 
Coast.  Now  do  you  suppose  that  it  is  done  for  the  Pacific  Coast  be- 
cause of  the  lessons  of  the  recent  election?  I  don't  suppose  it  will  be 
necessary  to  do  the  same  things  for  the  East  where  the  political  warning 
was  no  warning,  but  rather  an  encouragement  to  continue  as  in  the 
past.  Anyway  they  employ  "wops"  in  the  East  largely,  and  "wops" 
aren't  American.  They  must  be  given  lessons  in  citizenship,  its  glories 
and  responsibilities  and  duties,  and  especially  in  loyalty  to  the  flag  that 
so  generously  provides  opportunity  for  them  and  for  Standard  Oil,  too. 
"In  loyalty  to  the  common  cause  and  the  common  interest,  for  we  are 
not  a  land  of  classes  in  America." 

The  peace  flurry  is  a  puzzle.    I  am  not  very  well  satisfied  with  any 
explanation  of  it  yet.  *  *  * 

So  far  as  the  Germans  are  concerned,  it  seems  to  me  that  their  idea  is  to 
cinch  right  now  what  they  have  substantially  got,  and  yet  with  an  ap- 
pearance of  magnanimity.  It's  the  Mittel-Europa  dream  that  they  are 
all  writing  about.  What  the  Allies  are  mainly  concerned  about,  however. 


J  73 


even  should  Germany  make  many  concessions,  is  that  very  fact  that 
it  has  to  be  spoken  of  as  the  making  of  concessions  by  Germany.  That 
is,  she  is  generous.  The  Allies  will  not  have  earned  what  she  will  grant 
them  in  peace  terms.  It  doesn't  accord  with  their  notions  of  the  fitness 
of  things  in  the  European  scheme  that  the  Kaiser  declares  war,  runs 
over  everything  in  his  way,  rearranges  the  map  of  Europe ;  basks  to  his 
heart's  content  in  the  sun  that  he  has  so  long  sought ;  plays  a  magnifi- 
cent war-lord  part ;  travels  like  a  modern  counterpart  of  the  older  world- 
rulers  in  his  own  equipages  from  the  Golden  Horn  to  Antwerp  and  is 
monarch  of  all  he  surveys  from  Mediterranean  to  the  North  Sea;  be- 
comes weary  of  playing  at  war,  since  it  is  rude  after  all  in  places  like 
Verdun,  and  in  places  like  America,  where  of  all  places  bigness  and 
magnificence  ought  to  be  appreciated  even  if  it  be  accompanied  by  some 
little  lapses  of  memory  of  things  humanly  simple;  becomes  weary 
of  playing  the  big  game  then ;  thinks  of  larger  (yes,  admittedly  larger 
now  that  they  serve  the  needs)  worlds  to  conquer,  by  peace  and  good 
will  among  men;  strikes  an  ultra-magnificent  pose  and  proposes  to  con- 
fer upon  a  waiting  world  the  supreme  blessings  of  peace ;  modestly  ac- 
cepts the  approving  cheers  of  a  neutral  world,  throws  with  an  imperious 
gesture  the  half  of  what  he  has  won  to  his  enemies,  as  if  to  say,  "Why 
fight  for  it  gentlemen  ?  I  give  it  you" ;  gives  them  peace  as  he  has  given 
them  war ;  and  in  the  protecting  shadow  of  his  mighty  right  arm  allows 
the  world  to  go  back  to  its  work  again,  musing  the  while  upon  this 
divine  being  among  mortals,  who  cometh  like  a  pestilence  and  goeth 
like  a  blessing — like  Caesar,  coming,  seeing,  conquering,  but  unlike  him 
perhaps,  blessing;  like  Wa.shington,  first  in  war,  first  in  peace,  and 
first  in  the  hearts  of  his  country-men,  but  unlike  him  perhaps,  first  in 
the  hearts  of  his  fellowmen-imperial,  yet  Christlike.  In  the  person  of 
Wilhelm  then,  the  world  finds  that  unique  personality  who  shall  unite 
the  pagan  with  the  Christian,  the  will  to  power,  with  the  will  to  serve, 
what  the  world  has  wearied  its  poor  brains  about  since  Julian,  without 
an  answer.  I  fancy  the  Allies  will  not  be  over- anxious  to  accept  a  peace 
which  will  be  interpreted  as  a  concession  from  Germany,  whereby  the 
aims  for  which  she  went  to  war  will  have  been  established  without  pay- 
ing further  price  for  it. 

And  yet  I  wonder.  Strange  things  are  happening  during  this  war, 
those  unexpected  things  which  come  into  being  when  a  few  precipitate 
upon  themselves  forces  too  mighty  for  their  foresight  to  have  foreseen 
All  the  world  aspires  towards  democracy.  What  then  if  a  few  men  at- 
tempt by  a  gigantic  war  to  establish  their  sovereignty  ?  It  is,  I  think,  the 
aspirations  of  the  many  which  avail  the  most  when  all  are  thrown  into 
the  maelstrom.     What  is  the  meaning  of  the  overturning  of  cabinets, 

174 


and  the  shelving  of  foreign  ministers,  and  retirement  of  generals,  even 
those  who  were  of  the  minority  who  controlled  the  beginnings  of  it  and 
hoped  to  reap  the  rewards  of  the  end  of  it  ?  Isn't  there  after  all  a  force 
of  public  opinion  at  work  overturning  what  are  virtual  dictatorships  con- 
tinuously? And  it  seems  to  me  that  such  things  happened  before  this 
war  only  at  the  price  of  revolution.  The  spirit  of  the  French  Revolution 
is  a  powerful  thing ;  it  seems  to  live  on ;  or  the  spectre  of  it  walks  the 
boards  to  some  purpose  these  days.  Herr  Zimmermann  displaces  Von 
Jagow  at  the  foreign  office  in  Berlin.  He  (without  a  von,  by  the  way) 
talks  for  publication  about  the  inevitable  establishment  of  constitutional 
democracy  in  Germany  after  the  war.  Stiirmer  is  overthrown  in  Rus- 
sia, and  the  Duma's  authority  is  becoming  supreme.  A  people  educated 
to  its  own  power  probably  likes  to  give  that  power  scope ;  and  if  it  isn't 
given  scope,  woe  to  them  that  stand  in  the  way !  Let's  see  what  Lloyd- 
George  does  to  placate  it.  As  it  is  now,  England  has  retrogressed.  Ger- 
many and  Russia  have  advanced.  But  England  will  no  doubt  show 
,  them  all  yet  what  democracy  can  do ;  for  what  is  a  setback  in  England, 
is  only  seemingly  so.  Well,  it  may  be  that  Germany's  peace  proposal  is 
a  sincere  desire  to  begin  over  and  do  things  as  civilized  peoples,  without 
Kultur,  do  them. 

It's  all  too  confusing  for  me  to  make  much  out  of  it.  I  think  I 
have  become  somewhat  inoculated  with  the  English  method  of  muddling 
through.  Trust  to  your  instinct  when  your  head  can't  make  any  prog- 
ress through  things.    Wait  and  see. 

Dear  R : 


Last  night  all  of  us  met  together  at  the  Prexy's  place  for  the 
annual  reception — and  we  had  such  a  glorious  time.  It  really  was  bet- 
ter than  last  year's  by  a  long  shot,  however.  Last  year's  was  a  strictly 
formal,  butlerized  proposition,  your  name  bawled  out  on  entrance,  and 
shake  hands  and  grin  foolishly  down  a  long,  long  line  of  warm  receivers, 
at  the  end  of  which  beads  of  sweat  stand  out  on  your  pale  brow  like  the 
juice  oozing  out  of  a  stone  jug  in  the  summertime.  This  time  it  was 
rather  come-and-go-easy,  grabbing  a  bit  of  grub  on  the  way.  Anyway 
I  had  the  joy  of  getting  the  dress  suit  out  of  the  bag  and  discovering 
that  it  still  fits  and  wasn't  eaten  up  by  moths.  And  I  also  got  out  the 
old  topper  and  wore  it  again  for  old  time's  sake  and  felt  like  a  bleedin' 
devilish  old  top,  s'help  me.  Now  I  have  performed  the  social  duties  for 
the  year,  and  shall  not  need  to  appear  again,  disguised  as  a  social  ani- 
mal. For  I  am  not,  and  never  hope  to  be  able  to  be.  I  can  wear  a  dress 
suit,  with  a  certain  dignity,  but  to  wear  a  dress  suit  and  talk  too— it's 
too  much.    One  thing  at  a  time  is  enough  for  a  simple  man. 

175 


And  yet  I  remember  now,  looking  back  (business  of  looking  wist- 
ful into  the  dim  distance),  how  I  used  to  throw  on  (with  an  air  of  the 
contempt  bred  of  long  familiarity) — throw  on  my  dress  clothes,  which 
my  man  had  laid  out  for  me  before  the  fire  to  take  the  Oxford  damp- 
ness out  of  them,  and  saunter  out  to  dine  with  the  boys,  and  perchance, 
who  knows,  arrive  back  at  my  rooms  ivy-crowned.  But  that's  neither 
here  nor  there. 

Well,  I  observe  that  as  you  work  into  the  university  atmosphere 
you  find  it  composed  of  almost  the  same  proportion  of  strange-  smell- 
ing ingredients  as  that  of  the  outside  world.  The  standpatter,  who 
knows  how  to  make  money,  and  despises  the  rest  of  the  world  for  their 
lack  of  his  acumen  in  such  matters,  forgetful  of  the  fact  that  if  he  has 
got  the  nerve  to  take  what  he  can  get  quietly  there  are  hundreds  of 
others  who  question  the  means  and  manner  of  his  money-getting,  but 
have  qualities  in  every  respect  finer,  better,  more  useful — this  standpat- 
ter is  the  man  who  has  the  daring  imagination  (!)  to  grab  any  money 
lying  around  while  finer  men  wonder  whose  it  may  be  by  rights,  and 
who  has  the  high  quality  of  self -appreciation  which  tells  these  same 
men  who  have  seen  him  steal  his  funds  that  they  are  lacking  in  the  es- 
sential qualities  of  initiative,  and  resourcefulness,  and  strength.  The 
more  I  hear  of  the  blusterings  of  standpatter  politicians  about  strength 
the  more  I  am  convinced  that  between  the  standpatter  ideal  of  a  states- 
man and  a  highwayman  there  is  the  difference  between  tweedledum  and 
tweedledee — with  tweedledee  the  highwayman,  having  a  little  sugges- 
tion of  effeminacy  in  the  sound — dee  compared  with  dum — an  essen- 
tial point,  in  this  time  of  high  intelTectual  issue — hunting  an  issue — ex- 
position. And  your  mathematical  standpatter  is  as  true  to  type  as  the 
Lord  ever  breeds.  If  at  any  time  the  style  of  a  Carlyle  appeals  to  me 
it  is  when  I  try  desperately  to  find  a  vocabulary  picturesque  enough 
in  its  acerbity  and  "atrabiliar"  anger  to  objectify  my  feelings  about  the 
average  standpat  word-monger. 

I  am  surprised  at  you  in  asking  me  for  the  gossip.  Anyway  there 
doesn't  seem  to  be  any.  Either  I  am  completely  cut  off  from  the  cur- 
rent of  it,  or  there  is  an  uncommon  little  of  it  floating  around  where  I 
hang  out.  Well,  when  I  confer,  I  don't  hear  much  gossip,  and  by  the 
time  I  have  finished  that,  and  have  walked  by  myself  alone  for  a  while, 
and  have  gone  to  a  picture  or  written  a  letter,  or  taken  a  kink  out  of  a 
deranged  universe  for  some  of  the  boys,  by  that  time  it  is  bedtime  and 
I  roll  in,  as  I  did  not  use  to  do.  I  keep  on  thinking  that  I  will  be  alter- 
ing my  schedule  but  put  it  off  from  week  to  week.  But  I  shall  try  to 
get  a  line  on  some  scandal  by  next  time :  Satan  surely  has  a  literal  hell 
of  a  time  finding  some  mischief  for  busy  hands  to  do. 


176 


SEATTLE,  Feb.  15,  1917 
Dear  R : 

********* 

That  reading  I  have  been  doing  has  been  accomplished  under 
such  tremendous  pressure  that  I  scarcely  remember  anything  about  it. 
There  was  The  Genius,  for  instance,  by  Theodore  Dreiser,  and  Windy 
MacPherson's  Son,  by  Sherwood  Anderson.  About  the  first  there  has 
been  stirred  up  a  devil  of  a  row,  a  sort  of  censorship,  which  has  brought 
forth  a  protest  from  the  Authors'  League  and  others.  They  consider 
it  immoral  and  profane  and  in  their  circular  condemning  it,  cite  page  and 
line  for  the  instances  of  these  offences.  Truly  an  ingenious  and  ingen- 
uous way  to  censor  a  novel.  Fancy  the  Bible  censored  in  this  way. 
Fancy  another  group  of  men  taking  offence  at  that  respectable  and 
venerated  bit  of  literature  and  indicating  title,  page  and  verse  where  of- 
fences against  respectability  are  to  be  found.  Wouldn't  there  be  a  won- 
derful turning  over  of  Bible  pages  for  a  time?  The  good  censors  would 
have  sinners  in  hell  using  denatured  language  lest  good  people  find  that 
they  were  suffering  too  much.  They'd  have  case-hardened  sinners  lisp- 
ing with  the  tongues  of  babes.  I  wonder  why?  It  doesn't  seem  to  me 
that  the  hero  in  this  book  of  Dreiser's  is  enjoying  such  a  transcendently 
happy  life  that  people  would  rush  to  emulate  his  career.  If  they  believe, 
and  they  are  the  kind  who  usually  do,  that  literature  ought  to  provide 
warnings  against  error  then  surely  this  is  one.  It  is  a  book  of  profound 
suffering  to  me.  The  genius  is  a  dyspeptic  and  nervous  invalid  who  Has 
rather  strong  erotic  impulses  which  he  satisfies  without  moderation 
both  before  and  after  marriage  until  the  breakdown  takes  place;  who 
rises  again ;  breaks  down  again ;  and  finally  triumphs  over  his  tenden- 
cies. The  second  half  of  the  book  is  a  long  record  of  bitter  experience, 
extremely  depressing.  It  is  about  as  true  a  picture  of  a  life  that  any 
newspaper  man  knows  as  there  can  be  found,  I  imagine.  But  because  it 
lets  the  man  act  as  such  men  as  he  do  act,  and  speak  as  such  men  as  he 
do  speak,  they  don't  like  it.  By  the  time  they  had  it  tinkered  up,  your 
little  girl  might  read  it  and  be  prepared  against  what  she  is  going  to  find 
God  knows  where.  Anderson's  book  is  quite  different  in  this  respect. 
It  is  powerful  with  the  strength  of  restraint  in  the  first  half,  then  it 
strays  a  lot  and  finally  concludes  fairly  well.  It  is  well  written.  But  it 
has  to  do  with  a  much  less  emotional,  less  artistic  character,  and  is 
therefore  just  different.  Anderson's,  for  a  first  novel,  is  certainly  prom- 
ising. I  have  got  through  a  bit  of  Gorky,  too,  and  find  him  to  be  a  great 
writer  truly.  The  Spy  is  just  such  a  book  as  The  Genius  in  its  frank- 
ness ;  but  any  man  who  understands  what  the  writer  is  about  must  feel 
his  heart  bleed  for  such  utter  wretches  as  he  shows  to  be  found  where 

177 


life  is  made  insecure  and  devious  and  desperate  by  the  devices  of  vicious 
autocracy.  How  any  man  can  tolerate  any  sort  of  a  spy  system  after 
reading  this  book,  I  can't  understand ;  and  yet  there  isn't  an  angry  word 
said  about  the  system.  It  damns  itself  utterly  and  irretrievably  out  of 
the  mouths  of  its  own  servants.  That  is  art,  after  all.  I  didn't  under- 
stand it  at  first,  thought  it  was  gratuitous  insult  to  decent  humanity.  The 
life  is,  but  it  cannot  be  otherwise  where  such  systems  flourish.  I  have 
heard  tell  of  spy  systems  in  our  modern  industrial  plants ;  .  .  . 
This  book  shows  you  what  sort  of  men  and  women  it  breeds. 
********* 

Just  now  (Sunday  afternoon)  I  returned  from  a  trip  out  to  camp 

with  the  C s  and  V and  Sister.    We  went  out  on  the  morning 

boat  and  returned  in  the  afternoon.  The  lunch  we  got  together  out  at  the 
boathouse  was  a  wonder.  Had  a  great  steak  cooked  inimitably  by  our 
amazing  chef  from  the  Olympic  hike,  and  he  sure  do  know  how  to  cook. 
For  late  February  the  signs  of  spring  are  unusual.    Coming  over  on  the 

boat  Mrs.  C asked  what  that  was  just  above  the  line  of  green  firs 

that  looked  like  a  mist.  Why  it  was  a  mist,  made  by  millions  of  alder 
buds  just  now  turning  from  the  sombre  mouse  color  of  winter  to  the 
faintest  mist-lavender  of  stirring  life.  Ashore  there  were  emerald  tips 
on  the  spirea,  large  deep-green  shoots  on  the  elder,  specks  of  green  on  the 
wild  gooseberry,  the  white  blossoms  of  the  Indian  peach  showing  through 
pale  green  leaf  sheaths — there  were  many  signs  of  spring. 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  get  out  with  C ,  he  enjoys  himself  so  sin- 
cerely, and  he  gets  so  interested  about  the  books  he  likes,  and  the  war. 
I  had  almost  forgotten  about  the  war.  I  have  fallen  into  the  state  that 
forgets  about  the  war,  since  all  I  can  do  about  it  is  merely  to  hope  that 
the  right  thing  will  be  done  about  it  by  America.  And  I  have  conceived 
so  great  a  respect  for  Wilson  that  I  leave  everything  in  his  hands,  some- 
how having  convinced  myself  that  he  will  do  the  right  thing,  whether  I 
at  the  time  agree  with  him  or  not.  I  worried  more  over  the  war  during 
the  campaign  last  summer  than  I  shall  worry  again.  What  I  worried 
over  then  was  precisely  the  war  and  not  much  else.  For  I  knew  that  if 
Hughes  were  elected,  I  should  have  suspected  every  move  of  American 
diplomacy  and  have  squirmed  and  wriggled  to  fit  myself  to  the  decisions 
of  men  in  whom  I  had  no  confidence.  Now  on  the  contrary  I  have  so 
much  confidence  that  I  don't  concern  myself  about  things  except  as  a 
passive  spectator  or  one  gratified  by  the  things  done.  I  suppose  it  is 
bad ;  but  when  I  have  faith,  I  have  loyalty,  and  leave  matters  to  the  de- 
cision of  wiser  and  better-informed  men.  It  is  interesting  to  look  back 
over  that  much-advertised  blunder  of  that  previously  impeccable  diplo- 
mat, Lansing,  in  giving  out  the  interview  concerning  the  gravity  of 


178 


American  relations  and  the  imminency  of  war  at  the  time  of  the  Presi- 
dent's peace  note.  You  see,  he  had  to  retract  at  once,  and  that  is  very- 
bad,  very  bad  for  a  diplomat  to  do ;  for  it  is  equivalent  to  admitting  that 
he  is  not  infallible.  Our  worthy  friend,  The  Nation,  called  him  severely 
to  account  for  that ;  and  it  was  much  pained  at  the  need  of  reproving  so 
excellent  a  gentleman.  I  wondered  at  the  time  whether  Lansing  didn't 
know  much  better  than  to  commit  so  absurd  a  blunder.  For  the  wise 
his  action  was  supposed  to  be  sufficient,  I  assume.  It  was  a  necessary 
thing  that  the  nation  be  advised  that  unless  there  were  peace  there 
would  be  more  severe  war  if  not  more  extended  war.  And  yet  it  was  not 
wise  to  issue  a  direct  threat  against  Germany,  hence  the  warning,  for 
America,  and  the  retraction,  for  Germany,  to  be  interpreted  correctly 
by  the  understanding  in  both  places.  Now  the  President's  peace  efforts 
come  out  pretty  clearly  as  the  best  of  merely  practical  diplomacy  (if  you 
want  to  make  them  so,  or  believe  in  no  other  kind),  and  yet  as  highly 
idealistic  in  giving  a  new  meaning  to  American  life  in  the  community 
of  nations. 


SEATTLE,  March  8, 1917 
Dear  R : 

Just  now  we  are  head  over  heels  in  an  energetic  preparedness 
campaign.  The  University  has  a  committee  at  work  sending  out  blanks 
for  information  about  the  occupation  and  fitness  for  any  kind  of  work 
that  may  possibly  be  needed  for  military  or  industrial  purposes  in  case 
there  should  arise  an  emergency.  It  is  all  hysterical,  of  course ;  but 
one  must  prepai-e.  I  shouldn't  mind  it  so  very  much  were  it  not  for  the 
forces  behind  the  frenzy.  It  is  as  obvious  as  possible  that  what  is  in 
the  air  is  an  attempt  to  drive  us  into  some  form  of  universal  militarism. 
I  cannot  see,  nor  can  I  be  persuaded,  why  there  is  need  for  all  this 
pother.  (Good  word,  pother.)  I  am  willing  to  let  it  be  known  what 
I  can  do,  or  do  what  it  is  reasonable  to  do,  if  any  emergency  arises.  But 
I  am  going  to  insist  upon  using  my  own  intelligence  in  interpreting  what 
an  emergency  is.  Certainly  I  shall  not  sign  any  blank  commitment  for 
an  emergency  to  be  declared  by  those  who  are  engineering  this  sort  of 
thing. 

********* 

Those  panic-stricken  accounts  of  what  Germany  is  going  to  do  to 
us  fill  me  with  disgust  for  the  military  mind  and  its  courage.  A  mili- 
tarist is  apparently  a  man  who  deals  in  realities ;  but  in  reality  he  deals 
in  the  wildest  imaginations.  And  he  fears  the  dreams  he  builds  himself. 
He  is  a  sleepwalker. 

179 


I  am  tired  of  the  breed  and  the  questions  he  deals  with.  I  wish  he 
would  come  out  in  the  open  and  fight  the  labor  menace  above  ground. 
But  I  am  in  the  mood  to  say  pretty  soon :  "Very  well,  if  you  think  you 
are  going  to  accomplish  your  personal  ends  and  those  of  your  kind  by 
universal  military  conscription,  fall  to  it,  and  I  shall  be  only  too  glad  to 
help  you ;  for  if  you  must  learn  your  lesson  through  a  nation  of  soldiers, 
if  you  must  get  your  lesson  at  that  expense  and  at  the  expense  of  what 
will  follow,  then  may  heaven  help  you.  For  a  nation  of  soldiers  is  a 
different  thing  from  a  strikebreaking  militia,  or  a  constabulary,  or  or- 
ganized strikebreakers.  What  it  wants  it  can  take  without  the  media- 
tion of  rather  cumbrous  legislation.  And  surely  it  will  not  be  what  you 
want.  Surely  the  autocracy  of  Russia  was  a  more  fearsome  thing  than 
our  would-be  controllers  of  life.  When  the  armies  of  Russia  will  con- 
sent to  the  removal  of  their  dynasty,  then  a  smaller  thing  will  fall  more 
easily.  An  organized  nation  will  not  have  so  far  to  go  to  arrive  at  so- 
cialism.    Maybe  that's  what  they  all  want  after  all. 


SEATTLE,  April  7,  1917 


Dear  R- 


The  eagle  is  on  the  wing — not  to  peck  carrion  on  the  mesa  in 
Mexico,  thank  heaven — but  for  a  flight  worthy  of  its  pinions,  and  for 
a  foe  (as  enemies  go)  worthy  of  its  talons!  When  the  Roman  eagles 
took  to  the  wing,  that  was  a  time  for  free  peoples  to  tremble;  if  the 
flight  of  our  eagle  be  not  to  make  tyrants  tremble  wherever  they  may 
be  found,  then  I  have  no  stake  in  his  flight.  But  I  feel  that  it  is  so.  I 
placed  my  decision  in  the  hands  of  the  President  last  summer,  believing 
that  if  the  decision  must  be  made  it  must  be  made;  because  the  great 
good  for  mankind  is  threatened,  and  not  only  because  it  is  threatened 
now,  immediately,  but  rather  because  the  greater  good  which  might  en- 
sue from  this  great  slaughter  can  by  sacrifices  be  measurably  obtained, 
now — or  maybe  slipped  by  for  another  century's  toil  to  attain.  So  I 
have  come  to  feel  that  a  miraculous  opportunity  has  been  seized  by  the 
President  in  order  to  fix  inalterably  this  war  as  a  war  for  freedom  of 
all  peoples,  our  own  no  less  than  Germany's.  For  that  is  what  is  going 
to  emerge  from  it  all  if  President  Wilson  inserts  his  provisos  into  the 
terms  with  the  Allies.  Tyranny,  I  have  observed,  has  been  not  only  seen 
in  Russia,  or  in  Germany,  but  in  many  other  places.  It  has  fondly 
deemed  war  to  be  a  means  for  its  enthronement  in  many  places ;  and 
I  had  feared  that  it  might  gain  a  power  not  to  be  shaken  off  for  hun- 


iso 


dreds  of  years.  Then  between  two  days  Russia,  prototype  of  tyranny, 
frees  herself  of  the  incubus  that  war,  it  has  been  thought,  fastens  more 
firmly  than  ever.  There  lies  hope.  It's  a  people  in  arms  that  will  have 
its  way.  It  does  not  will  arms ;  but  if  tyrannic  force  can  make  it  bear 
arms,  that  force  has  executed  itself.  It  seems  as  if  the  way  to  liberty 
is  through  blood  always.  If  it  is  not  revolution  nationally,  it  is  through 
national  war  made  international  revolution.  That's  what  is  impending 
now.  If  the  world's  citizens  are  to  be  invited,  and  have  been  invited,  to 
fight  for  democracy,  there  can  be  no  question  of  a  doubt  that  they  will 
get  just  that  precise  thing.  And  that  means  that  what  they  want,  as  a 
majority,  henceforth  they  are  very  likely  going  to  get.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  about  what  they  want,  since  they  are  laborers,  educated  through 
long  years  of  propaganda  as  to  their  place  and  power.  The  interna- 
tional idea,  that  source  of  homeric  laughter  to  the  mirthful  militarist — 
what  about  it  now  ?  Is  there  not  a  good  deal  of  international  sympathy 
being  shown  by  laborers,  that  they  have  to  wade  through  blood  to  be 
allowed  in  the  end  to  express  the  truth  openly  that  there  is  only  one  foe 
to  men  of  all  nations  and  that,  tyranny  ?  We  fight,  militarists  and  all 
of  us,  for  an  international  idea,  and  yet  that  was  so  weak  a  thing,  that 
it  would  not  prevent  a  few  Socialists  voting  war  credits !  They  did  not 
see  apparently  that  having  to  vote  war  credits  and  having  to  go  to  this 
war  was  (I  hope  devoutly)  the  last  spasm  of  tyranny's  attempts;  may  it 
prove  the  death  throes ! 

Let  it  not  be  misunderstood  that  those  people  who  elected  Wilson 
and  who  follow  him  into  this  war  are  fighting  for  the  symbol  of  a  few 
ships  sunk.  I  rather  suspect  that  it  is  to  resist  that  tyranny  that  calls 
itself  militarism  and  that  now  rides  so  triumphantly.  They  are  few  who 
ride  thus,  and  yet  they  fight  for  democracy;  that  they  will  get,  and 
then  they  may  ride  hobby  horses  with  all  the  gallantry  and  tinsel  and 
show  of  the  circus,  to  the  applause  of  gentle  ladies  in  the  boxes  and  the 
homeric  laughter  of  the  sweating  herd  on  the  benches.  I  would  risk 
my  bespectacled  dignity  to  be  shoved  in  under  the  tent  to  look  on  this 
show,  by  heck' 

Thus  you  see  how  I  have  metamorphosed  from  the  pacifist  to  the 
man  who  believes  that  some  things,  as  the  world  is  now  constructed, 
must  be  fought  for.  I  have  felt  it  coming.  I  feel  keenly  for  those 
young  Englishmen  who  hate  war  with  the  hatred  of  calm  judgment  and 
yet  take  up  arms  to  fight  what  they  believe  must  be  the  last  fight.  As 
for  those  men,  were  they  sure  that  this  is  merely  another  of  those  wars 
preliminary  to  many  another,  I  am  almost  sure  that  they  would  refuse  to 
fight.    That  is  the  way  I  feel  about  it.    What  I  am  interested  in  is  that 


181 


the  sentiment  of  such  men  shall  be  upheld  throughout  the  world,  that 
this  shall  be  a  crusade  toward  that  New  Jerusalem ;  not  the  disciplining 
of  one  nation,  but  the  welding  of  all,  against  the  foes  within.  For  what 
we  fight  against  in  Germany,  we  have  to  fight  against  here,  and  England, 
and  France  in  their  own  lands.    If  we  have  real  war,  you  will  find  that 

the  and  the  incompetents  and  unfits  that  sit  like  leeches  on 

the  army  will  be  automatically  removed,  and  that  service  will  be  re- 
warded. We  shall  probably  learn  who  is  the  man  who  can  best  lead 
when  there  is  work  to  be  done  and  not  parading  to  display.  Wilson, 
and  Baker,  and  Daniels  are  very  likely  men  who  will  help  to  make  an 
army  democratic.  Ye  gods !  think  what  it  would  have  meant  to  have 
the  Republicans  in  power  now!  I  voted  last  fall  with  a  feeling  more 
nearly  like  religion  than  I  have  ever  felt  in  a  church,  and  I  hung  on  the 
results  with  an  apprehension  that  I  had  never  experienced.  For  I  knew 
that  this  was  what  hung  on  it  all.  That  trial  over,  the  country  was  safe, 
come  what  may,  even  war. 

The  week  of  vacation  has  just  passed.  I  have  tried  to  write.  We 
have  had  abominable  weather.  I  have  had  to  stay  in  the  house,  except 
for  a  little  show  now  and  then.  War  news  has  kept  me  on  tenterhooks. 
It  has  been  practically  impossible  to  do  any  work.  It  seems  of  such 
trivial  nature  to  be  writing  on  literature  in  these  times.  When  I  got 
home  and  settled  down  last  night  I  did  quite  a  little  bit.  I  found  my 
thoughts  flowing  fairly  well  and  accomplished  some  rough  sketch  work 
that  may  be  useful  to  me  in  the  end.  The  theme  I  am  on  is  close  to  the 
question  of  the  times  after  all,  and  the  feeling  engendered  by  the  world 
situation  can  be  transmuted  into  argument  for  my  cause.  I  am  merely 
trying  to  relieve  literature  from  the  absolute  control  of  any  one  method 
of  interpretation,  to  make  it  free  to  express  the  individual  and  to  be 
judged  by  his  own  attempt.  I  am  trying  to  make  the  understanding  of 
literature  based  upon  the  understanding  of  the  individual  and  his  per- 
sonality, and  not  upon  any  one  thesis  whether  economic  or  social  or 
whatever  it  may  be  called.    Individualism  is  what  I  am  concerned  about ; 

my   friend   B likes   to   call   it   anarchy  in   literature,   because   it 

seems  in  his  judgment  to  take  too  little  account  of  the  economic  forces. 
But  if  he  wishes  to  call  it  that,  I  have  no  objection.  For  anarchy  in  the 
judgment  is  precisely  what  we  have. 

It  is  about  time  to  roll  in — 12:30.  I  hope  the  trip  to  Chicago  will 
have  been  a  revelation  that  provincialism  is  not  limited  to  the  small 
town. — 

********* 


1S2 


SEATTLE,  May  22,  1917 
Dear  R : 

If  you  don't  mitTd  my  talking  about  myself  so  much,  I  must 
tell  you  that  I  feel  myself  growing  in  power  this  year,  so  much  that  I 
shall  be  able  to  turn  out  good  copy  in  fairly  regular  fashion  when  I  turn 
to  it  again.  Altogether  I  have  turned  out  some  25,000  words  since  the 
turning  of  the  new  year,  and  work  that  has  not  been  of  the  easiest  to 
do,  some  of  it.  It  is  the  feeling  that  I  can  do  a  pretty  fair  daily  stint  of 
it  regularly  that  gives  confidence.  What  I  grind  out  is  just  as  good  as 
any  I  can  do ;  so  I  may  as  well  arrange  my  days  in  such  a  fashion  that 
so  many  hours  are  devoted  to  some  kind  of  writing.  What  verse  I  have 
tried  hasn't  been  any  good;  I  don't  seem  to  have  been  able  to  make  it 
go.  But  this  summer  I  am  intending  to  try  my  hand  at  a  variety  of 
things.  I  shall  not  be  in  summer  school,  and  am  feeling  in  fairly  good 
trim,  and  may  as  well  keep  the  good  work  going  so  long  as  the  resolution 
.  is  strong.  Writing  is  grinding  any  way,  except  for  rare  moments  when 
things  shape  themselves  almost  by  themselves.  I  have  had  several  good 
flashes  during  the  half  year — so  good  that  it  made  my  old  nerves  tingle 
with  the  consciousness  of  power.  I  am  being  convinced  that  I  can  evoke 
the  feelings  oftener  by  sticking  to  the  job,  hanging  on  till  the  thing 
comes  right. 

I  have  been  fearfully  blue  sometimes,  I  must  confess,  as  you  well 
know.  The  rewards  come  so  late.  I  imagine  that  I  have  drilled  myself 
so  hard  this  year  as  much  on  that  account  as  any. 


SEATTLE 
Dear  R : 

The  developments  of  our  life  these  days  come  so  rapidly  and 
are  so  little  attended  with  publicity  that  one  must  look  sharp  to  keep 
pace  with  them.  The  affair  of  the  Columbia  professors  received  no 
notice,  so  far  as  I  remember,  in  our  local  press.  I  am  surprised  there- 
fore to  learn  of  it  through  the  weeklies,  and  of  course  glad  to  see  with 
what  lively  energy  they  attack  the  trustees  of  the  University.  I  am  be- 
ginning to  wonder  how  these  weeklies  will  be  able  to  withstand  the 
prices  they  will  be  offered  or  the  pressure  they  will  be  subjected  to. 
It  would  take  but  a  little  money  now,  considering  the  conspiracy  that 
seems  to  have  been  entered  upon,  to  blot  out  every  vestige  of  liberal 
opinion  in  the  country.  Heaven  help  us  if  it  is  done.  It  does  seem  to 
me  that  the  profession  of  journalism  in  the  universities  is  a  crying  need, 
as  that  which  passes  for  it  now  manifests  itself  in  this  country.    I  have 

183 


seen  many  rotten  manifestations  of  it  but  this  time  it  o'erleaps  itself — 
let  us  hope  to  fall  in  a  heap  on  the  other  side  of  the  war.  The  hound- 
ing of  La  Follette  is  certainly  a  disgraceful  thing.  Militarism,  they 
say,  is  a  fearful  thing — in  Germany;  but  in  our  owji  country  a  thing 
to  be  clasped  unto  our  bosoms.  I  wonder  if  La  Follette  would  have  been 
persecuted  so  bitterly  under  the  German  government  for  what  lit- 
tle he  has  done  here.  I  wonder  if  in  any  country  in  Europe  there  is  more 
outcry  against  one  difference  in  opinion  with  the  existing  government 
than  there  is  here.  France,  one  would  think,  if  any  country,  would  have 
the  excuse  that  in  war  there  must  be  unanimity.  But  where  do  govern- 
ments totter  and  fall  so  quickly?  I  fancy  however  that  there  is  a 
ground  swell  in  the  opinion  in  this  country  that  has  been  but  little  ruf- 
fled by  the  little  whiffs  of  treason-mongering  that  blow,  and  that  the 
elections  that  are  coming  will  see  some  surprising  registers  of  it.  I  shall 
not  be  surprised  to  see  before  the  congressional  elections  come  off,  if 
the  war  is  still  with  us  then,  that  our  intensely  democratic  press  will  be 
howling  for  a  coalition  government,  lest  the  people  say  something  to 
them. 

Whatever  else  you  accuse  LaFollette  of,  it  must  be  admitted  that 
he  is  one  dependable  man  in  a  legislature  that  thinks  with  its  numerous 
mouths.  That  is  the  real  reason  for  the  hue  and  cry.  Well,  I  don't  flat- 
ter myself  that  I  am  much  wiser  on  this  press  than  the  man  in  the 
street.  That  is  one  lesson  of  humility  I  have  been  learning  in  the  last 
few  years  whereby  I  have  come  to  be  more  nearly  a  democrat.  So  when 
I  think  that  the  man-hunt  has  just  about  reached  the  limits  of  patience, 
I  suspect  that  that  is  about  the  situation  in  the  minds  of  the  public,  and 
I  suspect  that  the  public  remembers  as  well  as  I  how  patriotically  the 
press  has  served  the  cause  of  democracy  in  peace,  and  knows  how  pa- 
triotically it  is  serving  it  now  in  the  time  of  war.  And  when  the  first 
iridescent  rapture  of  war  enthusiasm  is  worn  off  (as  it  soon  must  be  at 
the  rate  it  is  being  subjected  to  wear)  I  make  the  surmise  that  strange 
things  will  be  heard  here,  sober,  but  strange. 


SEATTLE,  Nov  8,  1917 
Dear  R : 

The  aftermath  of  a  headache  which  has  accompanied  me  all 
day,  still  lingers  and  makes  me  uncomfortable  enough  to  try  to  postpone 
any  necessary  tasks  that  vex  me  with  the  insistence  that  they  be  done.  I 
walked  this  afternoon  around  Green  Lake  to  Ballard  and  around  the 
waterfront  to  town  thinking  I  might  shake  it  off,  but  I  didn't  succeed. 

184 


The  autumn  display  of  foliage  is  wonderful,  yellows  and  reds  that  glow 
in  the  pale  afternoon  sunlight.  L  observed  some  beautiful  things  that 
1  wish  I  might  have  the  art  to  preserve  for  myself.  If  one  could  only 
paint,  there's  a  multitude  of  moods  and  atmospheres  in  our  landscape 
characteristic  of  each  season,  some  of  them  so  poignant  that  I  seem  to 
be  a  part  of  them — or  they  of  me — and  to  vibrate,  if  that  is  the  word, 
in  harmony  with  them.  Thought  ceases  at  such  times  and  one  is  sim- 
ply a  bit  of  non-sentient  nature.  To  try  to  translate  that  state  into  lan- 
guage is  beyond  me;  although  it  has  always  been  with  me  an  intense 
longing  to  be  able  to  do  it.  It  is  on  such  occasions  that  I  wish  I  might 
have  followed  my  native  early  bent  to  draw,  and,  I  hope,  eventually  to 
paint;  for  it  seems  that  it  might  be  possible  to  capture  some  of  these 
raptures  through  the  medium  of  line  and  color.  But  to  translate  it  into 
so  foreign  a  medium  as  that  of  words — that  I  seem  unable  ever  to  do. 
Today  I  saw,  for  instance,  a  cherry  tree,  which  seems  to  have  thrown 
off  its  burden  of  leaves  with  one  effort,  for  they  lay  there  on  the 
ground,  each  leaf  crisp  and  perfect,  golden  as  a  heap  of  yellow  corn. 
The  tree  stood  in  a  little  unkempt  yard,  clean-limbed  and  bare,  con- 
temptuously amid  its  cast-off  gold.  Now  what  was  there  to  call  up 
such  keen  ecstacy  as  I  felt  when  I  passed  ?  That's  what  I  cannot  quite 
seize.  Every  day  as  I  run  from  breakfast  to  school  through  our  little 
bit  of  wood  I  see  some  effect  of  tree  or  shrub  or  cloud  or  rain  or  sky 
that  grips  me.  They  leave  me  memories  only.  If  I  could  only  put  these 
things  on  paper  I  think  I  could  quit  the  teaching  work  very  soon. 

This  Italian  affair  will  start  some  remarkable  things  going  this 
winter  I  fear.  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  the  situation.  I  am  more 
and  more  in  doubt  as  to  what  we  are  in  the  war  for.  When  I  see  Lord 
Northcliffe  here  in  America  letting  us  know  what  our  business  in  the 
war  is,  I  get  perplexed  as  to  the  purposes  of  it.  I  can't  find  in  my 
memory  any  trace  of  any  work  that  he  has  ever  done  in  the  interest  of 
democracy.  I  had  at  one  time,  in  spite  of  my  hatred  for  war,  just  about 
determined  that  this  one  was  necessary  for  democracy's  sake.  I  do  know 
that  liberalism  was  winning  all  over  the  world  before  the  war  broke 
out,  and  I  had  been  told  by  some  theorists  that  when  such  a  thing  was 
inevitable  in  peace  time  it  was  customary  for  conservatives,  or  capital- 
ists, or  whatever  forces  of  reaction  control  foreign  policies,  to  bring 
about  a  war  and  thus  check  the  movement  for  another  century.  I  had 
given  that  theory  up  for  a  while.  Now  I  am  deeply  in  doubt,  and  I 
fancy  there  are  many  like  me.  To  judge  by  the  guidance  of  the  war  in 
those  countries  which  are  most  powerful  still,  it  is  just  those  men  who 
are  accredited  with  sinister  designs  who  are  in  absolute  control.    I  do  re- 

186 


member  that  Lincoln  was  bitterly  attacked  for  insisting  on  a  finish  fight, 
and  try  to  fit  his  attitude  to  these  men  in  control,  but  it  is  a  tragic  thing 
to  observe  the  way  these  men  of  the  present  shrink  under  such  a  com- 
parison. There  aren't  any  Lincolns  in  this  war,  not  even  Wilson.  As- 
quith  seems  nearer  to  the  stature  to  me  than  any  of  the  men  now  in 
control — and  Earl  Grey,  I  think,  measures  up  well.  Lincoln  was  pei^- 
fectly  willing  to  treat  with  the  enemy  at  any  time  and  did  so.  Why  is 
it  a  treasonable  thing  now  to  mention  a  possible  diplomatic  escape  from 
the  war  ?  I  cannot  see  it  clearly.  More  and  more  I  come  to  believe  that 
it  is  the  fear  that  the  world  may  have  to  come  to  political  settlement  of 
international  questions,  the  thing  precisely  which  these  gentlemen  don't 
want.  They  want  to  retain  that  power  in  the  hands  of  a  few  over  whom 
they  have  control.  One  military  decision  only  begets  another  in  the 
future ;  and  war  must  be  retained  as  a  means  of  settlement  of  internal 
as  well  as  external  questions.  Therefore  this  must  be  fought  until  the 
other  side,  or  ours,  can't  fight  any  longer,  and  therefore  must  submit 
to  force  pure  and  simple.  I  hope  Wilson  will  say  something  soon  that 
may  clarify  the  situation.  The  winter  is  going  to  see  remarkable  things 
unless  he  does,  I  am  certain. 


186 


INNOCENCE  ABOARD 


or 


The  Log  of  The  Witch 


187 


INNOCENCE  ABOARD 
or 

The  Log  of  The  Witch 

Tacoma,  July  5,  1915. 
Dear  Skipper  and  Mate: 

I  enclose  the  log  of  the  cruise  of  the  witch  some  several  years 
ago.  The  beginnings  of  it  have  lain  about  amnong  my  papers  accusing 
me  of  procrastination  until  patience  has  ceased  to  be  a  virtue,  and  I 
have  driven  myself  in  the  summer  heat  to  finish  and  forward  the  thing. 

I  don't  know  what  sort  of  memories  it  will  stir  in  you  men, 
who  now  mayhap  look  back  with  a  sort  of  fatherly  indulgence  to  those 
carefree  days.  But  for  me,  who  have  none  of  the  cares  that  you  have 
{although  I  have  some,  too)  the  writing  of  these  notes  and  the  vivid 
recalling  of  those  scenes  resultant  therefrom  have  been  an  undiluted 
pleasure.  That's  one  advantage  of  a  trip  like  that — you  can  take  it  as 
often  as  you  wish  over  and  over  again.  You  fellows  will  now  have  to 
take  it  over  again  once  more  at  least;  for  I  assume  that  you  will  read 
the  yarn  once,  just  for  courtesy's  sake.  I  should  count  it  a  triumph  for 
me  if  it  were  such — the  log — that  it  tempted  you  to  take  the  trip  a  couple 
of  times,  say. 

Well,  anyway,  here  it  is,  and  with  it  my  gratitude  for  a  royal 
time  both  aboard  THE  witch  and  The  hamyon.  The  halcyon  days, 
I  regret  to  say,  don't  stick  in  my  memory  so  well  as  those  of  the  witch, 
or  I  should  have  written  the  log  of  them  too. 

With  a  prayer  that  you  be  lenient  towards  my  many  short- 
comings in  the  manipulation  of  the  sailor's  lingo, 

Yours, 

Joel  M.  Johanson. 


It  is  my  good  fortune  to  be  the  possessor  of  a  couple  of  friends  who 
sail,  and  it  is  theirs  to  be  the  possessors  of  a  trim  little  yacht.  The  Witch. 
This  is  a  very  happy  combination  of  circumstances;  for  they  can 
satisfy  their  instincts  of  sailing,  whenever  a  lull  occurs  in  the  law-court 
grind  and  vacation  appears  ( for  one  is  a  budding,  not  to  say  "bloomin'  ", 
barrister,  and  the  other  a  successful  abstractor — and  the  lull  in  the  one 
case  usually  coincides  with  the  vacation  in  the  other,  that  is  to  say, 

189 


whenever  the  weather  and  the  wind  are  fair  in  summertime) ;  and  I  can 
satisfy  the  instincts  of  friendship  by  benignly  accepting  the  invitation 
to  sail  with  them,  or  rather,  to  be  sailed  by  them. 

It  came  to  pass  that  a  lull  occurred  in  vacation  time;  the  weather 
was  fair  and  the  wind  was  free;  and  an  invitation  was  issued,  and  ac- 
cepted forthwith ;  and  thus  I,  lubber  if  there  ever  was  one,  shipped  to 
be  sailed  by  my  friends  upon  the  good  ship  Witch. 

Both  of  my  friends  have  at  some  time  or  other  led  a  seafaring  life. 
One  has  coursed  the  Spanish  Main,  The  South,  and  all  the  other  Seven 
Seas,  and  especially  those  of  the  Far  East  around  which  the  glamor 
of  romance  hangs  most  thickly.  He's  full  to  the  brim  of  yarns  about 
his  experiences  in  storm  and  in  calm,  ashore  and  afloat,  with  wondrous 
reptiles,  birds,  and  beasts  of  the  tropical  jungle ;  and  can  always  manage 
to  recall  a  hair-breadth  escape  in  his  imminent  breeches  as  a  final  flour- 
ish. The  other  is  not  so  much  given  to  the  spinning  of  yarns,  but  I 
imagine  he  was  some  pretty  high  official.  You  may  know  that  life  on 
has  not  taken  him  so  far  afield,  or  rather,  a-sea.  His  sphere  of  activity 
was  limited  to  coastwise  travel  and  the  position  of  mess-master. 
That  "mess-master"  has  a  doubtful  sound  to  an  inhabitant  of  dull,  cold 
earth,  but  if  you  should  hear  him  and  see  him  pronounce  the  title,  you 
would  know  that  it  is  something  out  of  the  ordinary  at  sea.  So  I 
imagine  he  was  some  pretty  high  official.  You  may  know  that  life  on 
board  The  Witch  under  two  such  seasoned  old  sea-dogs  is  one  of  strict 
discipline.    It  was. 

The  coastwise  man  is  skipper,  that  is,  master  of  the  craft.  The 
South- Sea- farer  is  mate.  And  if  anybody  else  ships  he  is  God-knows- 
what-all.  In  this  case  under  attention  I  was  the  last.  As  soon  as  I  had 
signified  my  intention  of  becoming  a  member  of  the  crew,  the  skipper, 
a  lean,  swarthy,  taciturn  cuss,  in  fact,  as  piratical  looking  a  man  as 
ever  sailed  under  a  Jolly  Roger  and  made  men  walk  the  plank  without 
the  wink  of  an  eye,  peremptorily  ordered  me  to  bring  my  kit  aboard. 
Accordingly  I  went  ashore  and  rolled  up  my  blanket,  and,  knowing  that 
men  dress  in  white  when  sailing,  in  my  lubberly  ignorance  I  rolled  up 
my  tennis  outfit  with  it.  When  I  came  aboard  with  my  kit,  the  skipper 
eyed  my  tennis  outfit  with  a  contemptuous  grin  and  growled  something 
about  the  fool  things  some  people  bring  on  board  ship;  but  the  mate, 
a  rotund,  moon-faced,  jolly  old  dog,  said  he  guessed  they'd  do.  "Well, 
stow  your  kit  below  and  make  things  snug.  Get  busy,"  ordered  the 
skipper. 

I  didn't  know  where  "down  below"  was ;  but  he  had  said  something 
about  below  being  the  cabin ;  so  I  went  down  into  that  place  and  stowed 
my  stuff  away  and  began  to  tidy  things  up  a  bit. 

Thus  I  became  cabin-boy  aboard  The  Witch. 

190 


Soon  it  was  time  to  have  a  snack  of  something  to  eat  and  it  became 
my  duty  to  boil  coffee  over  an  oil  stove  that  smoked,  like  a  wet-straw 
fire,  fearfully,  but  burned  fitfully.  In  the  course  of  the  afternoon  the 
coffee  boiled  and  I  had  my  first  taste  of  ship's  fare. 

After  this  eating  I  went  outside  to  help  sail  or  turn  my  hand  to 
some  more  stirring  occupation  than  stirring  coffee.  The  skipper  had 
in  mind,  however,  that  he  would  try  me  out  on  some  simple  nautical 
terms  before  entrusting  me  with  my  duty  that  might  call  for  special 
skill.  Casually  he  asked  me,  "My  boy,  can  you  box  the  compass?"  to 
which  I  eagerly  replied,  anxious  to  do  anything  to  show  my  aptness, 
"Sure  thing.  If  you've  got  any  tools  aboard,  I'll  have  it  boxed  in  no 
time;  and  it  will  be  boxed  so  you  can  send  it  anywhere  without  harm 
when  I  get  through,  too."  The  skipper  snorted,  turned  with  a  shrug 
and  looked  appealingly  at  the  mate.  But  the  mate  was  holding  his  belly 
with  both  hands,  for  it  was  heaving  and  rolling  spasmodically,  his  face 
was  red  like  a  lobster  and  puffed  out  awfully,  so  that  he  couldn't  even 
gurgle  a  word.  I  never  saw  such  a  fit.  Getting  no  sympathy  from  the 
mate,  the  skipper  turned  again  to  me,  and  said  with  a  look  of  sadness 
and  pitying  concession,  "Well,  we  ain't  a-going  to  box  the  compass  to- 
day, son."    Thus  I  escaped  one  job. 

When  I  came  up  from  below,  I  noticed  that  the  skipper  was  hold- 
ing a  sort  of  iron  bar  wrapped  in  twine  that  came  up  out  of  the  bottom 
of  the  boat.  He  held  this  in  one  hand,  and  looked  ahead  once  in  a  while 
and  once  in  a  while  at  the  sails.  I  wondered  what  it  was  all  about — 
fooling  around  with  that  bar  that  way,  but  I  knew  that  it  was  some 
supremely  necessary  thing  to  do,  because  that  skipper  surely  couldn't 
be  conceived  as  doing  anything  else.  When  he  had  sat  muttering  to 
himself  about  crating  the  compass  and  apparently  holding  down  some- 
thing he  was  awful  anxious  to  yell  out,  he  said  to  me  at  last :  "D'ye  see 
this  thing  in  my  hand  here?  We  won't  box  the  compass  to-day,  lad, 
but  we'll  put  ye  to  some  other  work.  This  thing  in  my  hand  here  is 
the  tiller.  You  steer  the  ship  with  this  tiller.  I  am  going  down  below 
to  read  a  fairy  tale  about  a  lost  one  a  little  while,  and  while  I  am  gone 
you  can  hold  this  tiller  and  steer  the  ship.  Hold  her  just  where  she  is. 
Don't  let  her  luff.  Keep  your  sail  full ;  and  if  you  see  any  passing  ves- 
sel, take  her  swell  on  the  bluff  of  the  bow.  And  remember,"  said  he 
with  a  scowl,  "a  helmsman  must  not  close  his  eyes  to  keep  them  warm." 

I  determined  that  I  would  show  him  that  I  could  be  trusted  to 
carry  out  instructions  to  the  letter.  I  sighted  along  the  tiller,  as  he 
called  it,  to  be  sure  just  where  it  was,  and  held  it  there,  if  I  did  nothing 
else.  Then  I  would  look  up  at  the  sail  once  in  a  while,  just  as  the  skip- 
per had  done,  thinking  it  was  a  necessary  part  of  the  job.  It  looked 
business-like  anyway.    And  then  I  would  go  forward  and  peer  around 


191 


for  an  approaching  vessel  and  that  swell  the  skipper  had  spoken  of, 
although  I  didn't  know  what  a  swell  was — not  on  board  ship;  and  I 
wondered  what  the  bluff  of  the  bow  was,  too.  Then  the  darn  tiller 
would  wobble  around.  I  couldn't  leave  it  to  go  ahead  for  a  minute 
without  its  getting  swung  around.  So  I  fixed  myself  in  the  hole  where 
the  steerer  sits  and  held  onto  the  thing  for  dear  life.  But  things  didn't 
seem  to  go  right.  The  sail  began  to  flop  around  and  at  last  flew  clear 
across  and  tangled  me  all  up  in  a  mess  of  snarled  ropes  and  pulleys. 
Before  I  could  extricate  myself,  I  heard  a  rush  of  feet  accompanying 
a  roar  from  down  below.  I  was  yanked  out  of  the  ropes  with  a  fearful 
speed,  and  then  dimly  saw  a  swarthy  face  glaring  at  me  and  heard  a 
howl,  "What  in  hell  did  I  tell  you  about  holding  her  where  she  was? 
You  blanked  idiot,  don't  you  understand  English  ?" 

I  answered  meekly  that  I  had  held  her  just  where  he  had  told  me 
to  hold  her.  "I  marked  the  place  where  the  tiller  was  when  you  went 
below  and  held  it  there  all  the  time.  I  went  ahead  once  in  a  while  to  see 
if  there  were  any  of  those  swells  around,  but  whenever  I  did  the  tiller 
would  wobble  around.  I  gave  up  going  ahead  then  and  just  held  the 
tiller  right." 

"Well,  who  said  anything  about  holding  the  tiller  straight?  It's 
the  ship,  I  told  you  to  hold  straight,  you  infernal  lubber,"  he  yelled, 
"the  ship,  the  ship,  not  the  tiller.  Now  take  that  tiller  again  and  see  if 
you  can  hold  the  ship  straight.  It's  lucky  for  you  there's  a  Paddy's 
hurricane  bearing  down  on  us  or  ye'd  gone  to  the  bottom  the  way  you 
handle  ship.  Now  don't  let  her  come  about  again,"  and  with  that  he 
stalked  fuming  down  below  again. 

That  skipper  was  a  marvellous  man ;  talking  about  hurricanes  as 
if  they  were  the  experiences  of  the  day ;  even  trusting  himself  to  me  and 
going  below  as  if  a  hurricane  was  something  for  a  real  tried  seaman  to 
snap  his  fingers  at.  It  was  wonderful.  However,  I  wasn't  going  to  let 
my  admiration  for  this  consummate  courage  keep  my  mind  from  the 
task  in  hand.  I  kept  the  ship  heading  in  the  exact  direction  the  skipper 
had  left  her  when  he  went  down  to  his  fairy-tale.  And  I  didn't  do  any 
fancy  skippering  forward  nor  looking  at  the  sails — just  kept  the  ship 
true,  that's  all.  We  passed  in  this  way  several  interesting  places: 
Point  No  Point,  Useless  Bay  and  Cultus  Bay.  The  names  didn't  seem  to 
indicate  anything  worth  stopping  over  for.  Then  we  approached  Foul- 
weather  Bluff.  As  we  approached  a  presentiment  crept  into  my  heart 
that  here,  if  anywhere,  we  should  run  into  that  hurricane.  "Foul- 
weather"  didn't  sound  right,  with  hurricanes  in  the  air.  But  the  wind 
became  quieter,  and  the  sea  calmer,  until  there  was  no  wind  at  all  and 
the  sea  like  a  pond  of  oil.  In  spite  of  my  exertions  I  couldn't  hold  the 
boat  where  the  skipper  had  said  I  should.    It  gradually  changed  course 

192 


and  then  headed  in  all  sorts  of  directions.  I  heard  no  sounds  from  be- 
low and  judged  that  the  skipper  hadn't  found  it  out.  He  came  up  after 
things  had  settled  down  completely,  and  looked  around  as  if  everything 
were  as  it  should  be,  saying,  "Well,  here's  that  hurricane  I  expected. 
Now  we're  in  for  it.  We'll  have  to  row  in  and  anchor."  Thus  I  learned 
that  a  dead  calm  sometimes  is  a  hurricane. 

What  the  skipper  had  read  below,  although  he  called  it  a  fairy 
tale,  had  made  him  glum.  He  seemed  to  be  worried  about  something 
and  grumbled  to  himself.  Anticipating  an  outburst  which  I  knew  from 
one  experience  was  a  serious  thing,  I  struggled  with  my  tiller  to  keep 
her  headed  right.  Then  apparently  unable  to  keep  it  any  longer.  "Sup- 
posin'  this  here  vessel,"  said  the  skipper  with  a  groan,  "should  lose  her 
bearin's,  run  away  and  bump  upon  a  stone?  Suppose  she'd  shiver  and 
go  down  when  save  ourselves  we  couldn't?"  The  mate  replied,  "Oh, 
blow  me  eyes,  suppose  again  she  shouldn't."  Wherein  is  shown  the  dif- 
ference between  my  sailing  masters;  for  the  mate  was  a  jolly  old  soul, 
not  the  sort  to  borrow  trouble. 

The  skipper  plainly  was  in  distress.  He  walked  about  dejectedly, 
looking  for  a  wind  and  worrying  audibly  about  bumping  upon  a  stone. 
He  decided  that  it  was  no  use  to  wait  longer  for  wind  and  that  we  should 
have  to  make  shore  in  some  other  way.  He  told  me,  in  a  manner  un- 
usually gentle  for  him,  to  get  into  the  dinghy,  take  it  forward,  and  catch 
the  rope  he  would  pass  me  there.  Fortunately  he  had  indicated  with  a 
nod  of  his  head  what  the  dinghy  was,  or  I  should  have  betrayed  myself 
again  for  a  lubber.  I  climbed  into  the  little  cockleshell  of  a  boat  that 
had  bobbed  along  behind  all  afternoon,  caught  the  skipper's  rope  from 
forward,  tied  it  to  the  seat  in  my  craft,  seized  the  oars,  and  fell  to.  Now 
there  is  one  thing  I  am  a  bit  proud  of  and  that  is  my  prowess  with  the 
oars  in  any  sort  of  bar-propellable  craft.  That  little  cockleshell,  when 
it  is  tied  to  a  ship  like  The  Witch,  is  not  an  oar-propellable  craft — not 
that  you  might  notice ;  for  when  I  had  struggled  a  while  I  tried  to  notice, 
and  didn't.  But  the  skipper  told  me  I  might  row  for  the  shore  until  I 
got  tired. 

Thus  I  became  the  auxiliary  engine  of  The  Witch. 

I  rowed  until  the  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast.  The  good 
yacht  Witch  is  a  beautiful,  slim  and  trim  and  graceful  thing  to  look  at, 
floating  on  the  water  light  as  a  gull.  I  discovered  that  some  light  and 
graceful  things  have  some  weight  about  them  somewhere,  and  are 
deuced  hard  things  to  persuade  to  move.  My  oars  were  no  shucks  at 
persuasion,  much.  I  pulled  desperately,  the  rope  grew  taut,  the  dinghy 
was  snubbed  and  bounded  back,  while  The  Witch — beautiful  thing — 
just  bobbed  her  head  a  little  to  me.    The  skipper  asked  me  with  an  air 

193  — 7 


of  concern  if  I  were  gettin'  tired.  "Oh,  no,  I  could  row  all  day.  I  love 
rowing.  I  never  get  tired  rowing."  Whereat  he  was  much  relieved. 
But  I  was  not  relieved  at  all;  kept  on  rowing,  as  faithful  as  a  little, 
well-tuned  gas  engine. 

When  the  skipper  thought  he  had  passed  the  stone  he  was  worry- 
ing about,  and  I  was  about  to  begin  to  miss  firing,  he  called  me  back 
aboard  again. 

The  fat  mate  had  in  the  meanwhile  by  throwing  in  a  piece  of  lead 
discovered  what  the  depth  of  water  was.  At  the  skipper's  command  to 
"let  go  the  ank"  he  dropped  the  anchor  overboard  and  tied  The  Witch 
to  it.  Then  we  wrapped  up  the  sails  and  tied  some  strings  around  them 
to  keep  them  from  flapping.  This  done  I  was  ordered  to  get  the  dinghy 
alongside;  whereupon  it  was  loaded  with  cooking  utensils  and  pro- 
visions for  me  to  row  ashore.  A  second  trip  brought  the  officers  ashore. 
Then  it  was  my  duty  to  get  wood  for  the  fire  while  the  mate  cooked  up 
a  mess  for  us.  I  use  the  word  mess  in  order  to  get  the  sound  of  the  sea 
into  this  narrative,  not  in  disparagement  of  the  mate's  cooking.  I  found 
his  mess  very  palatable,  after  the  exercise  of  dragging  the  fairy  ship  to 
her  anchorage  and  ferrying  freight  and  officers,  and  fetching  wood  for 
the  fire,  and  several  other  duties  too  minor  to  mention.  After  the  meal 
I  was  put  to  scouring  the  dishes  out  in  the  salt  sea  waves. 

And  thus  I  became  scullion  aboard  The  Witch. 

And  then  I  ferried  the  officers  and  freight  back  to  the  yacht  again. 
After  this  exercise  there  was  a  little  time  of  rest  when  I  watched  the 
officers  enjoy  their  evening  smoke  and  listened  to  their  outlandish  jar- 
gon of  the  sea,  which  bore  little  meaning  to  me.  Mortified  at  this  ig- 
norance of  mine  I  resolved  that  I  would  avail  myself  of  the  first  oppor- 
tunity to  learn  some  of  it ;  for  I  had  discovered  a  dictionary  of  the  lan- 
guage while  I  had  been  tidying  up  the  cabin  in  the  afternoon.  Rest  was 
of  short  duration.  We  were  soon  all  busy  with  preparations  for 
the  night. 

The  officers  prepared  their  bed  in  the  cabin,  telling  me  that  I  should 
be  given  the  bed  of  honor,  the  guest's  bed,  that  night — much  to  niy 
pleasure,  for  I  had  begun  to  suspect  that  I  was  not  the  guest  of  honor 
on  that  trip.  Accordingly  when  they  had  made  their  beds  as  comfort- 
able and  cozy  as  beds  could  very  well  be,  they  turned  their  attention  to 
me.  I  was  given  a  bunch  of  spare  sails  and  instructed  how  to  make  a 
bed  with  them  out  in  the  cockpit,  as  they  called  it.  There  was  no  dearth 
of  instructions  as  to  the  making  of  the  bed,  very  minute  they  were, 
and  detailed,  and  voluminous ;  the  while  they  sighed  to  think  how  nice 
and  pleasant  it  would  be  out  there  under  the  stars  in  the  fresh  air,  and 
hov/  healthy  it  was  to  sleep  outside,  too.  But  they  would  have  to  be 
satisfied  with  things  as  they  were,  for  I  had  earned  the  right  to  the  bed 

194 


of  honor.  Meanwhile  I  pulled  and  twisted  and  shifted  the  sailcloth 
this  way  and  that  until  I  had  what  seemed  to  be  a  bed.  It  was  passed 
upon  and  highly  commended.  The  lights  were  blown  out  and  I  settled 
myself  for  the  long  night,  the  lovely  long  night  with  the  stars  burning 
intensely  overhead The  boat  rocked  ever  so  gently  and  sooth- 
ingly, and  the  water  faintly  gurgled  under  its  motion,  and  I  was  wooed 

to  slumber,  strength-restoring  slumber Several  hours  passed 

thus  in  this  unsuccessful  courtship :  the  stars  burned  still  more  intensely, 
the  boat  rocked  even  more  gently,  and  the  water  gurgled  ever  more 
coaxingly.  Added  to  all  was  the  sound  of  slumber  issuing  from  the 
uncomfortable  beds  in  the  cabin,  intoxicating  sound !  With  senses  more 
and  more  keenly  alive  to  all  these  impressions  as  the  night  wore  on,  I 
became  aware  of  another  thing :  the  breeze  was  beginning  to  blow  more 
freshly  and  I  could  feel  the  grateful  coolness  brush  over  my  upturned 
face.  With  the  breeze  there  came  other  things  to  observe.  There  came 
a  creaking  among  the  pulleys,  and  a  squeaking  among  the  ropes,  and  a 
pounding  under  the  boat.  The  rest  of  the  night  I  listened  to  a  chorus 
of  squeak,  creak,  ka-chug ;  squeak,  creak,  ka-chug  with  slight  variation. 
I  spent  the  long  hours  of  the  lovely  night  in  observation  of  these  re- 
markable appeals  to  the  various  senses.  After  an  infinite  space  of  time 
dawn  appeared — and  after  another  infinity  there  were  sounds  of  re- 
turning consciousness  down  below  where  the  officers  had  been  suffer- 
ing in  their  beds.  Faint  murmurs  arose,  sounds  of  conversation,  of 
persons  moving  about,  culminating  in  the  appearance  of  a  head  in  the 
cockpit,  with  the  suggestion  of  breakfast.  A  night  spent  in  the  minute 
observation  of  sensations  ought  not  to  make  one  balk  at  the  sensation  of 
a  breakfast,  surely.  I  thought  that  would  be  a  satisfaction;  it  might 
even  be  refreshing,  as  the  guest's  bed  of  honor  on  the  good  yacht 
Witch  certainly  was  not.  After  ferrying,  firebuilding,  wood-gathering, 
came  breakfast;  it  was  really  much  more  refreshing  than  guest-bed 
sleep.  Then  dishwashing  and  ferrying  again,  functioning  in  my  various 
capacities  as  God-knows-what-all  on  The  Witch. 

The  skipper,  now  that  the  chores  had  been  finished,  was  anxious 
to  get  away  on  what  he  called  a  fair  breeze  up  the  canal  whither  our 
trip  was  planned,  because  we  ought  to  reel  off  the  knots  in  grand  style 
while  it  lasted,  which  was  a  very  uncertain  thing.  T  noticed  now  why 
the  skipper  had  been  worried  about  bumping  upon  a  stone  the  night 
before.  They  were  lying  bare  all  around  us,  exposed  by  the  ebb  tide. 
Our  things  were  got  aboard  with  all  possible  speed;  no,  with  my  pos- 
sible speed,  not  all.  The  sails  were  hauled  up,  the  ank  was  pulled  in, 
and  away  she  flew.  Just  a  little  way;  there  was  a  crunch  below,  the 
skipper  slewed  around  desperately ;  then  the  boat  began  to  hop,  skip,  and 
jump  along,  stopped,  and  leaned  over  until  the  water  began  to  pour  over 

195 


the  rail,  while  the  sail  pulled  us  over  farther  and  farther.  I  was  for 
climbing  the  mast  to  get  out  of  the  water,  but  reflection  convinced  me 
that  it  would  be  safer  to  be  in  the  water  in  the  boat  than  in  the  water 
on  the  mast;  so  I  stayed.  While  the  skipper  and  the  mate  got  down 
the  sail  that  was  pulling  us  over,  I  grabbed  a  handy  pole  and  tried  to 
shove  off,  as  if  I  was  riding  a  blooming  little  punt.  The  officers  took 
down  the  sail  all  right,  but  all  I  succeeded  in  doing  was  to  lift  myself 
off  the  deck  with  great  ease.  But  with  the  aid  of  the  whole  crew, 
officers  and  scullion,  and  cabin-boy,  and  auxiliary  engine,  and  ferryman, 
and  cook,  and  all  the  rest,  the  boat  was  at  last  pushed  off  the  rock  upon 
which  she  had  climbed,  into  deeper  water  alongside,  but  on  the  shore- 
ward side.  The  skipper  investigated  "the  reef  we  had  run  afoul  of" 
and  found  that  it  extended  out  diagonally  from  the  shore  with  the  open- 
ing out  to  windward.  We  were  literally  in  a  cul  de  sac;  there  was  no 
getting  out  before  the  tide  had  risen  high  enough  to  float  us  over  the 
reef.  The  ank  was  heaved  over,  and  we  lay  to ;  that  is,  I  think  we  lay 
to,  that  sounds  right  anyway  (I  haven't  had  any  chance  to  get  at  that 
dictionary  yet,  life  on  shipboard  hitherto  being  all  work  and  no  sleep). 
Thus  was  the  skipper's  prophetic  soul  more  than  borne  out  by  the  events. 
We  had  bumped  upon  a  stone,  at  least,  even  if  we  hadn't  lost  our 
bearin's. 

Everything  fast,  the  skipper's  sense  of  responsibility  for  the  safety 
of  the  ship  asserted  itself  in  the  regulation  precautions.  He  commanded 
me  to  go  below  and  sound  the  well  to  see  if  we  were  making  water. 

"Sound  the  well,  sir?"  I  asked,  determined  not  to  "box  another 
compass." 

"Yes,  sound  the  well.  Holy  rum  and  tarbarrels!  Do  I  have  to 
make  a  picture  of  everything  I  ask  you  to  do  ?  Sound  the  well.  Meas- 
ure the  water.    And  quick." 

"Yes,  sir." 

I  hastened  down  below,  and  prodded  around  awhile,  finding  to  my 
satisfaction  that  there  was  still  plenty  of  water  below.  I  reported  that 
we  weren't  losing  any. 

"Ain't  losing  any,"  he  cried  furiously,  "Who  the  hell  asked  you  to 
find  out  if  we  wuz  losing  any?  Mate,  hustle  down  and  see  if  you  can 
find  out  if  we  are  making  any  water.  That  blanked  ijit  is  enough  to 
drive  a  respectable  seafarin'  man  to  drinkin'  milk." 

The  mate  reported  after  investigation  that  the  vessel  was  making  a 
mite  of  water,  but  not  enough  to  cause  undue  worry.  There  wasn't  much 
to  do  but  sit  there  and  watch  the  wind  go  humming  by  up  the  channel, 
and  wonder  how  it  would  feel  to  be  out  there  in  it.  We  were  in  the 
doldrums  for  fair,  as  the  story  books  tell  about  it,  as  "idle  as  a  painted 
ship  upon  a  painted  ocean,"  while  the  wind  blew  gaily  by.    There  had  at 

1»6 


last  come  a  time  in  my  nautical  experience  when  there  was  nothing  to 
do,  when  I  might  spend  a  few  moments  time  learning  some  necessary 
seaman's  lore  in  the  dictionary  I  had  found  below.  I  spent  the  morn- 
ing, therefore,  between  cramming  my  lubberly  mind  with  the  language 
of  the  deep  and  dozing  occupations  not  exactly  compatible  with  each 
other,  but  serving  to  while  away  time  satisfactorily.  The  skipper  might 
fuss  and  fume,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  about  good  sailing  going  by 
the  board;  but,  as  the  situation  was,  I  was  my  own  master  and  life  be- 
gan to  wear  a  rosy  aspect  again.  When  we  were  under  way,  on  the 
other  hand,  and  the  skipper  was  in  high  fettle,  I  was  expecting  his 
scowling  visage  to  hover  over  me,  raging  against  the  sublime  ignorance 
of  landsman.  However,  any  paradise  this  side  of  the  eternal  must  have 
its  ending.  The  tide  rose,  so  that  we  could  clear  the  reef.  The  wind 
had  lost  its  morning  eagerness ;  still  there  was  a  fair  draft.  So  the  skip- 
per crowded  on  all  his  canvas  and  made  a  run  for  it  to  make  up  for  the 
lost  time  of  the  morning.  Yesterday  I  should  have  stated  the  same 
facts  as  follows:  we  hauled  up  all  the  sails  and  sailed  as  fast  as  we 
could,  because  we  were  late.  It  is  easily  seen  that  I  profited  by  the 
study  of  the  dictionary  during  the  enforced  idleness. 

Well,  with  the  wind  dead  aft  and  a  flowing  sheet  well  eased  off 
to  it,  and  the  spinnaker  and  balloon  jib  all  holding  well,  we  bowled 
along  up  the  Canal  right  merrily,  everything  happy  as  a  marriage  bell. 
There  was  nothing  for  it,  said  the  mate,  but  to  get  down  in  his  favorite 
place  abaft  the  binnacle  and  yarn  it  awhile.  He  told  me  of  the  many 
gorgeous  larks  of  himself  and  his  mates  down  in  the  South  Seas  when 
they'd  splice  the  main  brace  as  often  as  shore  leave.  Those  were  the 
days,  the  jolly  sailing  days,  when  there  was  a  lass  in  every  port  to  glad- 
den the  eyes  of  a  singing  sailorman,  wot  ?  Even  the  skipper,  happy  now 
that  the  wind  came  up  piping  in  our  tail,  so  that  we  romped  up  the 
Canal,  stowed  his  chronic  gloom  and  showed  a  gleam  of  sunshine  in  his 
face.  When  we  had  set  out  our  cold  snack  of  lunch,  he  even  growled 
a  bit  of  a  sailor's  chanty  betimes  as  he  kept  his  eye  on  the  sails.  I  caught 
a  fragment  of  it  now  and  then,  and  managed  to  patch  together  some- 
thing like  this,  which  may  be  a  well  known  sailor  song  for  aught  I  know : 

Westward  ho!     With  a  rumhelow, 
And  hurrah  for  the  Spanish  Main,  0. 

And  then  he  snarled  out  with  a  vehement  emphasis  on  the  syllables : 

A  randy,  dandy,  dandy,  0, 
A  whit  of  ale  and  brandy,  0, 
With  a  rumbelow  and  a  Westward — ho! 
And  brave,  my  mariners  all,  0. 

197 


We  bore  down  on  one  landmark  after  another  that  afternoon  and 
passed  them  all  in  smashing  style.  There  was  Point  Hannon  on  Hood's 
Head,  and  Termination  Point,  hard  by  Port  Gamble,  lying  snug  in  her 
bay.  After  lunch  the  mate  piped  all  hands  to  muster  and  ordered  them 
to  wash  down  the  decks.  So  all  the  crew  appeared  in  their  bare  feet 
and  labored  steadfastly.  There  was  the  cook,  and  the  scullion,  and  the 
ferryman,  and  the  cabin-boy  working  faithfully  under  the  watchful 
eye  of  the  skipper  and  the  mirth  of  the  fat,  joking  mate.  Then  we 
passed  Salsbury  Point  and  Squamish  Harbor,  and  South  Point,  and 
Brown  Point,  and  Little  Bangor  on  the  King's  Spit;  and  we  rounded 
Hazel  Point  and  Oak  Head,  and  then  a  little  later,  Tskutsko  Point  on 
Toandos  Peninsula,  by  which  time  we  had  brought  the  wind  from  dead 
aft  to  about  two  points  abaft  the  beam  as  we  swept  into  Dabop  Bay. 

We  had  had  too  much  luck  for  our  skipper  and  he  was  harboring 
plans  for  the  distress  of  the  crew.  About  four  in  the  afternoon  he 
dropped  anchor  in  Jackson's  Cove  and  announced  that  the  crew  would 
fall  to  and  pump  out  the  bilge  so  that  he  could  make  an  examination  of 
the  hull  after  the  straining  of  the  morning.  Now  pumping  out  the  bilge 
in  cramped  quarters  isn't  a  sweet  job,  nor  a  clean  one,  and  with  a  sav- 
age skipper  glowering  at  you  to  make  you  keep  up  speed,  I  find  it  isn't 
the  thing  for  comment  in  this  here  particular  diary.  Nevertheless  the 
bilge  was  pumped  dry,  and  a  hole  was  plugged,  and  the  skipper  was 
satisfied,  and  we  were  both  beginning  to  get  hungry,  when  all  of  a 
sudden  the  mate  ashore  let  out  a  bloodcurdling  whoop.  We  saw  him 
whaling  away  at  something  down  in  the  marsh.  For  once  the  mate  had 
been  sent  ashore  to  get  the  meal  ready,  while  I  was  busy  with  the  bilge. 
His  strange  antics,  yelling  like  forty  devils,  and  beating  a  marsh  with 
a  flail  like  a  madman,  if  it  did  nothing  else,  reminded  us  that  he  ha3 
been  sent  ashore  to  get  a  meal  ready  for  which  we  were  already  fam- 
ished. When  he  came  in  answer  to  our  summons  to  ferry  us  ashore, 
he  announced  that  he  had  killed  a  dogfish  in  the  marsh,  and  announced 
it  with  some  air  of  triumph.  From  that  moment  on  I  had  my  suspicions 
of  the  genuineness  of  his  tales  of  prowess  among  ferocious  Oriental 
beasts.  Kill  a  dogfish  in  a  marsh,  forsooth ;  and  then  tell  about  it !  For 
once,  then,  I  played  passenger  to  the  fat  mate's  Charon,  the  ferryman, 
and  was  rowed  ashore.  There  we  encountered  such  a  lively  host  of 
enthusiastic  mosquitoes  as  never  before  in  my  experience  had  made  an 
evening  meal  hideous.  I  had  never  imagined  that  mosquitoes  were  a 
pest  for  sailors  to  account  for.  Anyway  I  got  a  few  morsels  of  food 
away  from  them,  enough  to  take  the  edge  from  my  hunger,  at  least, 
and  was  glad  enough  to  accompany  the  Officers  on  a  water  expedition. 

It  was  a  wonderful  evening,  quiet  as  a  grave.  The  mountains  at 
the  base  of  which  we  walked,  rose  abruptly  from  the  water's  edge. 

198 


The  sun  had  set  long  since  behind  them,  and  the  shadows  shrouded 
everything  along  shore  and  well  out  into  open  water,  casting  all  things 
into  a  mysterious  gloom  in  which  we  recognized  here  a  deserted  house, 
there  a  house  half-burned  with  its  charred  skeleton  weirdly  shaped — 
everything  ghostly.  Finally  we  came  upon  a  hotel-like  structure  in  the 
half-light,  all  empty  and  windowless.  This  we  entered  to  explore  what 
remained  of  it,  having  by  this  time  filled  our  water-casks.  Our  exam- 
ination revealed  little  but  the  remains  of  ancient  high  revelries,  there 
being  empty  liquor  bottles  lying  dead  in  battalions  and  regiments  about 
the  floors.  This  place  was  called  Christian's  Folly,  we  learned  sub- 
sequently. If  Bunyan's  Christian  in  his  Progress  had  sojourned  here, 
he  would  have  drowned  in  the  fiery  deluge  which  must  have  flowed  from 
such  an  array  of  bottles.  I  meditated,  on  our  return  in  the  deep  dusk, 
upon  the  multitudinous  follies  of  man,  and  long  after  I  had  retired  for 
the  night  in  the  guest's  bed  of  honor.  But  this  night  I  slept  like  a 
top ;  such  is  the  virtue  of  pumping  oiit  the  bilge  when  you  haven't  slept 
the  night  before. 

Thus  came  night  and  morning,  and  it  was  the  third  day  of  my 
seaman's  life.  It  came  with  a  fair  breeze.  Breakfast  is  held  according 
to  the  usual  formula  of  labor  by  the  crew — unnecessary  to  record  again. 
Then  we  up  with  the  hook,  take  a  fair  breeze  a  couple  of  points  abaft 
the  beam,  and  waltz  off  for  the  Port  of  Quilcene  past  Point  Pulali. 
This  was  a  morning  almost  devoid  of  incident,  the  ship  creeping  along 
under  bare  steerage  way,  and  the  sun  beating  down  in  a  most  distress- 
ful way  upon  an  unweathered  lubber.  The  skipper  was  in  a  reasonable 
mood,  and  I  had  little  to  do.  I  wrote  letters  descriptive  of  the  terrors 
of  seafaring  life  to  the  folks  at  home;  for  we  were  going  ashore  at 
Quilcene  to  get  and  leave  mail  and  provide  supplies,  while  the  mate 
looked  up  a  bit  of  business  with  a  namesake  there.  After  letterwriting 
I  got  some  tackle  out  astern  in  the  hap  of  landing  some  fresh  fish  for 
the  cook,  seeing  a  number  of  small  craft  around  us  fishing.  At  twelve, 
while  the  skipper  was  shooting  the  sun,  I  landed  a  fine  salmon,  amid 
rejoicing.    We  needed  fresh  provision. 

Having  worried  along  well  into  the  harbor  we  dropped  the  hook 
and  went  ashore,  the  entire  crew,  and  walked  to  Quilcene  in  a  sun  that 
brought  the  sweat  boiling  out  of  a  man.  It  was  pleasant  to  be  in  a  sort 
of  civilization  again,  albeit  that  of  a  very  small  village,  and  to  observe 
the  envious  looks  of  the  villagers  at  the  bunch  of  real  seadogs  rolling 
along  the  highway.  That  was  a  sweet  moment  of  triumph — one  for 
which  I  was  willing  to  endure  the  concentrated  wrath  of  our  skipper 
again  and  again.  Having  seen  the  burg  and  let  the  inhabitants  see  us, 
we  sauntered  into  the  Hotel  Queen,  the  most  luxurious  hostelry  within 
eyeshot,   and  ordered  up   chuck  with  a  sniff  of  grog  alongside.     I 

199 


noticed  that  we  were  the  target  of  the  charms  of  a  number  of  highly 
ornamental  and  ornamented  ladies  in  the  place,  as  well  we  might  be, 
such  a  handsome  trio  of  bronzed  and  capable  tars  as  we  were. 

I  was  already  weary  of  the  land,  and  longed  for  The  Witch. 
While  the  officers  transacted  what  further  business  they  had  before 
them  in  Quilcene,  I  got  myself  back  to  the  ship  and  busied  myself  with 
various  forms  of  tidying  up,  replenishing  the  stores  of  water,  washing 
down  decks,  cleaning  the  fish,  and  other  little  orders  of  the  day.  Then, 
while  I  awaited  the  return  of  the  skipper  and  mate,  curiosity  led  me 
ashore  to  inspect  a  house  labelled  The  Quilcene  Megaphone,  which  I 
wondered  about  as  I  worked.  I  found  that  this  oddly-labelled  house 
covered  the  local  press  and  newspaper.  It  would  be  necessary  to  have 
a  megaphone  to  attract  attention  to  this  quiet  nook  in  the  woods.  This 
rural  newspaper  thus  by  its  name  quite  simply  and  sincerely  announced 
that  its  business  was  to  attract  attention  to  itself.  Thus  it  gave  a  lesson 
to  the  great  journals  of  the  cities  which  conceal  the  same  purpose  under 
such  specious  titles  as  The  News,  or  The  Post,  or  The  Times,  blatant 
and  hypocritical  self -advertisers  as  they  are.  One  can  learn  lessons  for 
the  great  even  among  the  simple.  But  that's  neither  here  nor  there  in 
the  chronicles  of  a  simple  sailorman. 

The  captain  and  the  mate  came  aboard.  The  hook  was  got  over 
the  rail  again,  and  at  three  we  were  creeping  out  of  the  Quilcene  Bay 
with  a  breath  of  air.  I  was  allowed  to  fish  again,  but,  though  salmon 
leapt  and  splashed  all  around  us,  none  was  to  be  lured  by  my  tackle. 
By  evening  we  had  got  to  the  point  at  the  entrance  to  the  bay.  We 
anchored  off  the  point  and  made  supper,  which  we  enjoyed — after 
we  had  in  a  body  attended  the  obsequies  of  a  seal,  offensively  deceased 
in  the  near  vicinity  of  our  camping  place.  Fresh  provisions  from  shore 
added  to  the  cargo  with  which  the  meal  was  eaten,  after  the  nuisance 
had  been  abated.  But  the  meal  was  cut  short  perforce ;  for,  as  we  ate, 
a  breeze  began  to  stir  the  waters  of  Dabop  Bay  outside,  and  we  decided 
to  make  a  run  for  Tskutsko  Point  at  the  turning  of  the  Canal  to  see  if 
we  couldn't  make  it  before  dark.  We  made  haste,  put  up  our  canvas, 
and  got  away.  As  we  swung  out  into  the  stream  and  felt  the  thrill  of 
good  sailing  again,  the  crew  was  for  crowding  on  a  bit  more  canvas ; 
he  had  become  enthusiastic  about  the  possibilities  of  sailing  when  The 
Witch  had  come  thumping  up  the  Canal  the  day  before  with  spinnaker 
and  balloon  jib  set.  That  had  been  something  like!  But  when  I  ven- 
tured upon  this  suggestion,  the  skipper  merely  grunted  as  he  cast  his 
weather  eye  over  the  water  to  windward.  "It's  a  lubber  that  cracks 
on  till  all's  blue;  but  it's  a  seaman  who  knows  when  he's  got  enough, 
and  shortens  sail  in  time,"  said  he.  "The  breeze  is  likely  to  pipe  up, 
and  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  it  would  come  up  a  devil  of  a  blow. 

200 


Yes  sir,  if  we  don't  have  to  scud  for  it  under  bare  poles  afore  we're 
through  with  this  night  I  ain't  a  sailor." 

It  wasn't  long  till  I  began  to  appreciate  what  an  infallible  eye  our 
skipper  had  for  the  weather:  the  wind  freshened  increasingly;  the  sky 
grew  threatening ;  the  water,  dark  and  angry.  Presently  it  had  stiffened 
into  a  gale:  the  cordage  whistled  and  screeched:  the  combers  chased 
and  overtook  us,  lifting  us  high  and  dropping  us  as  they  sped  on,  the 
water  seethed  and  raged,  and  the  wind  swept  the  foaming  crests  of  the 
waves  into  the  air  with  an  angry  hiss.  The  dinghy  tugged  and  jerked 
this  way  and  that  with  its  nose  to  the  sky  lil^e  a  balky  pony  until  the 
painter  was  so  taut  that  it  hummed.  The  Witch  yawed  about,  wildly 
threatening  at  every  rise  to  hurl  herself  on  her  beam  ends  into  the 
trough. 

The  crew  and  mate  began  to  wonder  what  plan  the  skipper  had 
to  save  us  from  imminent  destruction  and  suggested  that  something 
ought  to  be  done :  The  mainsail  ought  to  be  closereef ed,  or  he  ought  to 
run  for  shore  and  anchor,  until  the  force  of  the  storm  should  have 
spent  itself.  Whatever  plan  the  skipper  had,  he  kept  his  own  counsel 
and  drove  the  ship  onward.  Then  suddenly  a  furious  squall  literally 
tore  the  ship  away  from  the  skipper's  control,  threw  her  around  beam 
to  the  wind,  and  heeled  her  over  farther  and  farther — until  the  mate 
and  crew  with  a  frenzied  leap  to  the  windward  rail  held  her,  with  the 
canvas  lashing  itself  to  ribbons  and  the  boom  drawing  circles  in  the 
water.  Everything  loose  along  the  decks  had  been  swept  over  the  rail 
into  a  boiling  sea  and  had  vanished  in  a  flash.  She  held.  The  mate 
scrambled  forward,  warning  the  crew  to  stay  on  the  rail,  and  struggled 
with  the  halyards  until  the  peak  was  let  down.  This  eased  the  vessel 
sufficiently,  so  that  the  throat  could  be  let  down  and  the  boom  and  can- 
vas got  inboard.  This  done  the  ship  began  to  ride  fairly  comfortably, 
although  in  the  trough,  and  rolling  dizzily.  So  the  skipper  ordered  the 
mate  to  mend  the  jib,  which  had  by  this  time  torn  loose,  and  make  it 
fast,  so  that  the  vessel  could  be  got  under  steerage  way  again. 

All  this  time  the  crew,  hanging  over  the  rail,  was  lost  in  admira- 
tion of  the  seamanship,  the  surprising  skill  and  nimbleness  and  readi- 
ness, displayed  by  the  fat,  jolly  mate.  He  wondered  how  so  much  effi- 
ciency could  be  carried  under  so  much  fat. 

The  crew  had  by  this  time  learned  that  scudding  before  the  wind, 
which  he  had  imagined  to  be  the  simplest  and  easiest  of  all  sailing,  call- 
ing for  no  especial  qualities  of  seamanship,  was  mighty  ticklish  business  ; 
and  decided  that  when  he  went  sailing  in  the  future  for  fun  he  would 
always  choose  a  day  when  he  would  have  the  wind  somewhere  afore 
the  beam ;  he  would  certainly  see  to  it,  at  all  events,  that  it  was  not  dead 
aft. 

201 


Well,  by  this  time  the  mate  has  mended  and  made  fast  the  jib. 
It  fills,  jerks  the  ship  around,  and  away  we  go  racing  along  under  that 
little  wisp  of  a  sail  every  bit  as  fast  as  the  day  before  we  raced  along 
under  full  sail.  The  dinghy  jerks  away  at  her  painter,  but  comes  along, 
nose  as  proudly  high  as  ever.    Our  difficulties  are  over  for  the  time. 

Looking  around  us  now  a  bit  we  observed  a  strange  sight  ahead 
where  the  Bay  met  the  Canal.  The  waters  of  the  Canal  behind  Tskutsko 
Point  were  in  a  state  of  dead  calm ;  while  the  wind  from  the  bay  behind 
us  tore  across  the  canal  diagonally ;  so  that  there  was  a  strip  of  water 
between  the  calm  and  the  stormy  where  we  could  see  a  long  series  of 
miniature  waterspouts  being  whirled  up  several  feet  into  the  air  in  a  line 
diagonally  across  and  up  the  Canal.  That  seemed  to  the  landsman  to  be 
a  rather  interesting  evidence  of  the  violence  of  the  storm.  The  skipper 
was  evidently  trying  to  avoid  being  blown  up  the  Canal  by  getting  the 
wind  sufficiently  on  the  quarter  so  as  to  sneak  through  the  line  of 
spouts  into  the  calm  backwater  behind  the  point.  By  clever  handling 
of  his  tiller  (I  give  the  skipper  the  credit  of  being  the  skilfull  mariner 
that  he  is,  after  this  soul-stirring  experience)  we  approached  the  line 
diagonally,  with  an  apparently  good  chance  to  slip  through.  Just  as  we 
stuck  our  nose  into  these  strangely  agitated  waters,  the  wind  seemed 
to  desert  us,  and  we  lost  headway ;  then  we  started  to  spin  like  a  top, 
our  jib  full  and  pulling  all  the  while.  We  were  getting  a  stirring  demon- 
stration of  how  the  waterspouts  were  being  made.  Here  was  a  pretty 
kettle  of  fish.  We  were  seemingly  doomed  to  stay  there  spinning  if  we 
depended  on  sails  to  get  us  along.  The  skipper,  however,  was  as  anxious 
as  we  were  to  get  into  that  haven  of  quiet  waters  just  beyond.  He  gave 
orders  to  stow  the  jib,  get  the  dinghy  forward,  and  start  towing  through. 
Here  was  a  chance  for  the  crew  at  last  to  show  his  prowess  among  the 
elements.  He  flopped  into  the  dinghy,  was  passed  a  towing  rope  from 
forward,  belayed  it  to  the  seat,  and  fell  to.  The  little  midge  of  a  boat 
was  mighty  worried  among  the  thousand  and  one  motions  of  that  choppy 
sea ;  but  the  auxiliary  was  determined  to  do  his  little  exhibition  as  well 
as  the  others  had  been  done.  The  engine  showed  that  he  could  be  de- 
pended on  too,  in  the  time  of  storm  and  stress.  Gradually  the  ship 
crept  out  of  the  troubled  zone  in  the  wake  of  the  bobbing  dinghy,  and 
at  about  nightfall  it  came  to  anchor  after  the  skipper's  order,  "Avast 
towing  and  come  aboard." 

The  ending  of  this  day  was  a  harmony  of  lurid  and  wild  effects. 
The  sun  had  disappeared  under  the  high  western  mountains  in  a  blazing 
riot  of  red  and  gold  which  threw  uncanny  streaks  of  light  over  the 
seething  waters  of  the  bay  where  we  had  struggled.  Now  in  the  deep 
twilight  the  amethystine  afterglow  of  the  sunset  lingered  faintly  in  the 

202 


west ;  the  waters  moved  slowly  and  oilily,  reflecting  strange  distorted 
paths  from  our  lights ;  there  was  little  sound  but  the  faint  slap-slapping 
of  water  under  our  hull  and  now  and  then  a  subdued  roar  from  around 
the  point.  Fishermen,  anchored  near,  made  signal  flares  which  were 
answered  from  the  distant  hills.  The  day  had  ended  in  a  literal  blaze  of 
glory — glory  of  color  and  glory  of  motion.  For  a  simple  landsman,  a 
little  less  glory,  and  more  simple,  straightforward  sailing,  please.  When 
the  night  settled  down  the  blackness  was  thick  enough  to  carve  with  a 
cutlass:  "the  night's  as  dark  as  a  ship's  bilge  after  the  storm,"  as  the 
mate  expressed  it. 

The  next  day  dawned  fair,  with  the  wind  in  our  teeth.  The  canal 
being  quite  narrow  made  the  matter  of  sailing  out  in  "the  face  of  the 
wind  a  slow  and  careful  work.  So  we  spent  a  quiet  and  uneventful  day 
beating  to  windward  with  a  course  full  and  by.  The  skipper  apparently 
had  decided  that  I  had  earned  the  right  to  try  my  'prentice  hand  at  the 
tiller  again,  for  he  called  me  to  observe  the  manner  of  handling  the  boat 
for  awhile  and  then  surrendered  the  tiller  to  me,  cautioning  me  not  to 
nip  too  close  to  the  wind.  "A  helmsman,"  said  he,  "must  always  be  on  the 
watch  to  prevent  his  boat  from  broaching  to  and  from  being  brought  by 
the  lee.  When  beating  into  the  wind,  as  we  are  now,  don't  let  her  broach 
to,"  said  he.  "Aye,  aye,  sir,"  I  cried,  with  the  true  tang  of  the  sea  in 
my  voice.  You  see,  gentle  reader,  how  I  have  progressed  in  the  hearty 
language  of  the  tar.  Even  the  skipper  let  his  eye  rest  upon  me  in  mild 
approval  at  this.  I  determined  to  earn  his  further  approval  by  my  man- 
ner of  handling  the  vessel.  "Broaching  to"  hadn't  conveyed  much  mean- 
ing to  me.  I  knew  enough  not  to  nip  too  close  to  the  wind,  anyway,  and 
did  get  through  the  ordeal  without  blundering.  It  was  an  uneventful 
day,  as  I  have  said.  When  I  could  handle  the  vessel  without  calling 
down  the  maledictions  of  the  skipper  upon  me,  it  goes  without  saying 
that  it  was  an  uneventful  day.  We  cast  the  ank  that  night  off  Hood's 
Head,  and  we  all  slept  again  in  our  respective  places  of  honor  and 
dishonor,  I  mean  we  all  really  slept. 

The  next  day,  the  fourth  day,  a  good  early  breeze  took  us  up  to  the 
face  of  Foulweather  Bluff  and  left  us  there,  as  if  plotting  to  cast  us  on 
the  rocks  again.  The  tide  came  to  our  rescue  and  carried  us  past.  We 
loafed  along  to  Point  No  Point,  where  the  wind  perked  up,  and  with  it, 
fhe  crew,  anxious  to  make  port  that  night.  All  the  ship's  canvas  was 
crowded  on  again.  The  skipper  orders  a  new  set  for  the  spinnaker,  and 
decides  after  trial  that  it  works  well.  So  we  spin  along  then  on  the 
homeward  flight  in  right  smart  style.  As  we  pass  the  point  and  my 
attention  is  attracted  to  the  group  of  buildings  here,  the  skipper  in 
answer  to  my  query  informs  that  the  buildings  are  used  for  lighthouse- 

203 


keeping.  To  think  that  I  had  missed  the  waggish  depths  of  the  old 
skipper  these  many  nights  and  days!  It  was  an  afternoon  of  high 
spirits.  The  mate  told  me  about  a  famous  occasion  when  he  lay  aloft  to 
fasten  a  block  to  the  stuns'l  boom  and  lead  an  inch  of  rope  through  it 
and  got  his  eye  on  a  junk  off  the  port  quarter ;  how  he  bawled  the  news 
below  and  got  them  stirred  up  for  the  chase;  how  they  bore  down  on 
them  in  smashing  style  and  overhauled  them  as  if  they  were  anchored, 
boarded  her  and  took  her  captive  in  the  name  of  Jehovah  and  the  Conti- 
nental Congress — and  found  her  loaded  to  the  guards  with  edible  bird's 
nests.  Lord,  how  that  mariner  roared  and  sputtered  and  choked  with 
glee  when  he  came  to  this  climax.  Then  the  skipper  took  me  in  hand 
again  and  quizzed  me  about  toppin'  lifts ;  and  ratlines ;  and  halyards, 
main  and  throat  and  peak;  and  about  luffing,  and  easing  off  the  sheet, 
and  dowsing  every  inch  of  canvas;  and  about  reeving  the  bridle;  and 
many  other  things  that  a  seaman  loves  to  quiz  about.  Late  in  the  after- 
noon the  good  ship  Witch  came  to  anchor  at  her  berth  in  Apple  Tree 
Cove  in  the  Port  of  Kingston.  Thus  ended  the  cruise ;  and  the  skipper 
and  the  mate  and  the  entire  crew  went  ashore,  back  to  the  humdrum  of 
daily  landlubber  life. 

Often  since  I  have  reviewed  in  my  mind  the  incidents  of  my  maiden 
cruise  and  have  longed  for  another  chance  to  lie  on  the  deck  just  "abaft 
the  binnacle"  with  that  jolly  old  mate ;  and  to  see  the  fierce  scowl  and 
hear  the  burning  words  of  our  swarthy,  taciturn  skipper;  yes,  even  if 
he  were  talking  to  me. 


104 


